Suddenly, he yanked her into his chest. His arms went around her, anchoring her to every inch of his tall, lean body. Her hands went to his chest. One pressed over his pounding heart. The fabric of his coat was fine. Soft and supple. Heated from him and from the fire. She should push him away. Put an end to this.
And yet…
Be reckless, for just a moment.
Could she be? Did she dare?
“Miss Hilgrove,” he said, his voice low and strained. Almost guttural. “If you do not get as far away from me as you can in the next five seconds, I am going to kiss you.”
His warning should have sent her fleeing. Should have been the reminder she needed to restore her common sense, her logic, her wisdom, her honor. Instead, it had the opposite effect, holding her fast.
She was helplessly in his thrall now. Nothing could induce her to leave his arms, to go another second without the promise of his mouth on hers.
He did not need to wait the five seconds, and neither did she. She rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.
Her mouth was softer than velvet. Warm and tentative. So bloody delicious. He held still, imprisoned by shock as much as the cataclysmic rush of need pounding through his veins and pooling in his loins. The rest of her was cold. Small and delicate. She had seemed almost fragile this morning, like the delicate orchid she wore as a scent: a rare blossom, unique in her beauty, yet difficult to cultivate.
Her lips, however, were hot and lush. Demanding and potent. There was no finesse in her kiss; instead, she slammed her mouth to his with an almost animalistic aggression he would have found uninspiring in any other woman.
Conversely, in Miss Hilgrove, he found it intoxicating. In the force of her sudden act, she demonstrated just how helpless she was to resist the fierce, electric jolt of attraction sparking between them more by the day, hour, minute, second, heartbeat, breath.
His hands were on the small of her back, pinning her body to his, holding them together. He inhaled slowly, drinking in the sweetness of her scent, the boldness of her kiss, marshaling his restraint. And then slowly, he took control. He moved his lips against hers, angling them. He kissed the corners where her disapproval of him so oft dwelled. He sucked the lush lower fullness into his mouth. Nipped it with his teeth, tugging.
She made a soft, kittenish sound of surrender, her lips opening to him. His tongue slipped inside, into her satiny heat. She tasted of her morning tea: bergamot and sugar. But she tasted too of mysterious, delicious woman. She tasted like something he had been starving for without ever having known it existed.
His hands followed her spine as he kissed her, the fabric of her hideous dress keeping him from her skin. This would have to be enough, though the frantic hunger for her clawing at him railed against the travesty. He wanted to tear at her buttons, peel down her bodice, strip away her layers. He wanted to lower her to the carpet when she was nothing but pink and cream, warm and willing woman.
He wanted her in a thousand different ways. In every damned chamber of this bloody house. He wanted her beneath him, atop him. Good God, and all this pent-up need from one kiss.
She sucked his tongue, and his cockstand went even more rigid. He inhaled sharply. A mistake, because he was just breathing in more of her. She was consuming him, surrounding him. He kissed her harder, not taking care to be gentle as she undoubtedly deserved.
But she kissed him back with equal fervor. She pressed closer. Her hands moved from his chest, twining around his neck. He glided his touch over the smooth fabric of her bodice, following the curve of her back all the way to the stiff collar at her nape. He found the silken swath of skin there, and then the sleek glory of her hair.
He kissed her as he plucked pins from her hair, sending them dropping to the carpet wherever they fell. Thick, heavy curls spilled over his fingers as he freed her tresses from the wretched bun into which she had tamed them that morning. Another surge of lust arrowed through him.
More. He had to have more of her. All of her.
He never should have kissed her back. He never should have touched her hands, led her across the library. He never should have taken her in his arms. Because before she had been a spark in his blood, but now she was a conflagration.
Her tongue slid tentatively against his, and he groaned into her mouth at the intoxicating thrill of it. Prim Miss Hilgrove had a wild, passionate side hiding beneath her severe exterior. And he was ravenous for that part of her.
Desperate.
More pins hit the carpet with dull thuds. His senses were ridiculously honed, making him aware of everything—her ragged breaths, the soft murmurings of her pleasure, mingling with the crackling of the fire. His body was heated. Her fingers had drifted back to his chest, and she clutched at his lapels, grasping fistfuls of his coat and dragging him closer to her still. As if she feared he would fly from her if she released him.
No chance of that.
He had her where he had wanted her since the moment she had first stormed into his chamber in high dudgeon. Almost. Because where he truly wanted her was in his bed, and not just in his arms. But this was a start. It was something more than what he had hoped for since her assertion she could not afford to be reckless with him.
He had been angry with himself the day before, for wanting her as much as he did when it made no
