The place between them ached so badly and pulsed so persistently, she thought she might go out of her mind. But she knew she shouldn't let him touch her there again, not until they were married. She couldn't ask him to touch her. "More, James," she whispered instead. "Kiss me more."
And he did. He drew up her skirts, and he kissed her knees, swirling his tongue in tantalizing strokes. And he drew her skirts higher and kissed her thighs, all over and between them, little kisses that were melting her, melting her heart, melting her resolve. And then he drew her skirts higher still, higher and higher, until they were pooled around her middle. Without lifting his head, while he was still kissing her, he bared her all the way up to her waist.
She knew she should stop him, but she was moaning, and she couldn't seem to help herself. Though she knew she was wanton, she didn't care. And then he lifted his head and, using his hands to ease her legs wider, he looked at her there…and she knew it was wicked.
But she'd never experienced anything better or more exciting. Ever.
"Should I kiss you here?" he rasped.
She'd never heard of such a thing. Never even imagined it. But she wanted him to kiss her there more than she'd wanted anything in her life.
That place wasn't just pulsing now—it was throbbing.
"Should I?" he asked, and his hot breath made it throb more. "Should I kiss you here?"
She couldn't bring herself to say yes. She couldn't bring herself to agree to something so wicked. Even though she wanted him to kiss her there so badly that tears pricked in her eyes.
He lowered his head, but he didn't kiss her. His hair had flopped over his forehead, those dear, unruly curls, and she couldn't see his eyes. But she knew he was looking, and that knowledge made the throbbing mount unbearably.
"Should I?" he whispered, and his breath was hotter than ever, so hot it made her hips lift right off the bed.
"Yes!" she cried. "Oh, yes!"
And he kissed her there. He kissed her there over and over and over, his tongue finding that sweet spot that made her throb even more. It felt hot, slippery hot, little slippery hot strokes. She wanted to touch him more than ever, but she couldn't reach him anywhere, so her fingers curled into the damask beneath her instead. And he stroked and stroked until that slippery heat sent her flying into oblivion.
She had never, ever felt anything like it in her life. Not even in the greenhouse. She moaned. She moaned until James crawled up her body and captured the moans in his hot, talented mouth.
She thought she might calm then, like last time, but the opposite was true. His kisses were devouring her, making the ache build all over again. She tasted not only James now, not only lust and wine and James, but also the faintest hint of herself. A combination that proved the most delicious, most incredible, most arousing flavor ever.
It wasn't enough. She wanted that flavor forever, she wanted him to kiss her forever, but it wasn't enough.
And then he lifted his head and looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her. And kissed her again and lifted his head again and just looked at her again.
The expression in his eyes, the devotion and the love, was almost more than she could stand.
"Can I come inside you?" he whispered in that raspy, heartbreaking tone. "I swear, Juliana, I want you more than I want to breathe. More than I want my own life. Sweetheart, can I come inside you?"
She moaned again, but it was a silent moan, only a moan in her head. Why couldn't he just take her? Why did he always have to ask? Why did he make it her decision as much as his, make it so she couldn't claim he'd ever taken advantage, not even to herself?
Why, why, why?
But she knew why. It was because he was honorable. Because he was the best man she'd ever known. Because he was everything she'd ever wanted all along, even before she'd known herself enough to know it.
She loved him. She loved him more than she'd known it was possible to love another human being. And he was waiting. He was still waiting for her to answer. Waiting to hear she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Patiently waiting, his heart in his chocolate brown eyes.
How could she deny him? How could she deny herself? They'd be married soon anyway, and if anyone deserved to hear the words he was waiting for, if anyone deserved to know she wanted him with all of her heart, it was James.
She drew in a breath. And, "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, please. Please make me yours."
He froze. He didn't move; he didn't even breathe. "Are you sure, love?"
Why did he have to ask?
But she knew why. "I'm sure. I want you more than I want my life."
He didn't ask her again. He rolled off of her, leaving her wanting, but only to rip off his cravat and tailcoat and waistcoat. And unbutton his shirt. And pull it off over his head. And then, while she drank in the mouthwatering sight of his firm, bare torso, his fingers went to the buttons on his falls, and she realized, somewhere in her hazy, love-drenched mind, that all this time he hadn't even unbuttoned. He'd kissed her and caressed her and sent her to oblivion without even unbuttoning.
He unbuttoned now, and before she knew it, he was naked. Dear heavens, he was magnificent. She wanted him even more, much more than she'd thought possible. He fell on her then, and took her mouth with his, and she could hardly wait to have him inside her. He kissed her, and kissed her, and—
"James? Are you home?"
It was his mother, out in the corridor.
"James,
