He had to think of her as Miss Wren, the governess. Not Persephone, the sunset-haired siren. Then perhaps he could keep himself under control. Tamp down the relentless urge to kiss her senseless. To learn what those lips would feel like.
She closed the distance between them in a flurry of movement, her hands settling on his shoulders. And then, her mouth collided with his.
He had his answer.
Hot and soft as silk and heavenly.
* * *
His mouth was warm and plumper than she had expected, those supple lips matching to hers in a way that felt somehow as if it had been preordained. She had taken him by surprise with her ardor. But then, she had taken herself by surprise, too.
But his hesitation did not last long.
In an instant, his mouth was moving over hers, slowly, tenderly, as if he were savoring her. Persephone became aware of everything in a new way. His breath, hot and mingling with hers, the glide of his tongue in her mouth. His scent, fresh soap and musky man invading her senses. The settle of his hands on her waist. The brush of his too-long hair against her cheek. And his kisses.
God, his kisses. They were kisses of seduction rather than an exercise in power, masterful and smooth. He kissed her in a way she had never been kissed before, urging her to respond in turn with his lips and tongue.
Her entire body suffused with heat.
She had not intended to kiss him. It was rash and foolish and reckless to do so. But now that her mouth had met his, she could not stop. She was voracious with the need to consume and be consumed. His hands moved from her waist, sliding to the small of her back, pulling her nearer.
Into his tall, lean hardness.
For the first time since she had awoken to his form towering over her, she was reminded of how few layers of fabric separated her from him. No petticoats, no stays. She wore nothing but her night rail and a simple dressing gown, primly buttoned but not a sufficient barrier. However, unlike the other occasions in which she had found herself alone with a man, she did not feel even a hint of fear. Instead of the layers of fabric proving a protection, in Rafe Sutton’s arms, they felt like an unwanted hindrance.
She had not known kissing could be so transformative.
It was as if, before her lips had touched his, she had been a different person. Someone timid and afraid. And now, in his arms, she had come to life. There had never been a reason to fear this man. He had defended her when no one else ever had.
He was a rake and a charmer, but one with a good heart.
She had been faced with a choice: allow him to walk away, or seize the moment. Kiss the handsome East End rogue, knowing she may never have another chance. Her body had made the decision for her, moving into his, against his, seeking more.
He made a low sound, part growl, part groan. How liberating to think this clever seducer affected by her untutored kiss. A sudden desperation seized her. He had been about to leave, but the world was still dark beyond the windows, bathed in shadows and secrets. The house was quiet and enrobed in the tranquility of the night, and no one would need to know…
Rafe gentled the kiss, brushing his lips over hers once, twice, then rubbing his lower lip over the upper bow of hers. For a brief, worried moment, she thought he would stop, take his mouth from hers. But then he found the corner of her lips, dragging his kiss over her cheek. One of his hands abandoned her back, his fingers instead sinking into her unbound hair, cupping the base of her skull and urging her head to fall back. Tenderly pulling her in the direction he wished.
She trusted him, she realized. Implicitly. In a way she had not trusted another. Was it his ruthless securing of vengeance on her behalf? Or was it something else? Persephone could not say.
All she could do was allow him to move her as he wanted, exposing her throat to him.
He nuzzled her ear, then pressed a kiss to the whorl. Her breaths were ragged, coming faster. Her lips tingled with the memory of his. She rubbed her cheek against his and closed her eyes, savoring this stolen embrace, perhaps the only she would ever have.
Rafe kissed down her neck, his mouth setting her skin alight. It was too much and not enough all at once. His arm wrapped more firmly around her waist when her knees trembled, anchoring her to him and keeping her from sliding to a heap upon the carpets. That was when she felt the evidence of his body’s reaction, the thick hardness prodding her.
She opened her eyes, taking in the sight of him, wrapped in her embrace.
She knew what it was, that prominent ridge, but the revelation did not send an icy rush of foreboding through her as it had before, that terrible night when Lord Gregson had almost taken her against her will. Instead, it sent an answering pulse of need between her thighs.
This was different.
Rafe was different.
In his arms, she was safe.
Relief mingled with desire. She was not broken. Lord Gregson could not hurt her. Her hands took on a life of their own, learning Rafe’s body. The broad shoulders, the muscled arms, the strength of his back. He opened his mouth and suckled her flesh in a place she had never known was so sensitive—the hollow at the base of her throat.
An embarrassing sound emerged, part squeak, part mewl.