They had stopped walking. They were alone with the lamplight and the roses and the naked writhing bodies.
“Do you know what I see?” Dougal asked, turning so that he faced her. She recalled the feeling of his mouth claiming hers and tried not to lean forward, then wondered why she was fighting the connection. A kiss could be just a kiss.
“I see a woman who is clever and caring and so beautiful it makes my bones feel like they are on fire.” She swayed closer. How could she not? She wasn’t made of stone. She was flesh and blood and want. “I can still taste you on my lips,” he continued ruthlessly. “Tea leaves and sugar. I want to taste all of you.”
Her lips parted on a shaky breath and his mouth descended on hers or she reached up to him or both. It was enough that finally that space between them burned away. She molded her palms to the hard planes of his back. When her breasts grazed his chest, her nipples tightened, pulling an instant response from her quim. Need pulsed inside her, especially when he used his teeth to tug at the neckline of her gown. He traced the top of her stays with the tip of his tongue, dipping down to swipe against her sensitive nipples. She squirmed closer, the bulge in his breeches pressing in the hollow of her hip.
She was backed against the cold, hard marble sculpture but it may as well have been made of fire. Strangers frozen as they found their pleasure, hands grasping just above her, legs parting behind her, tongues seeking. It made her feel everything Dougal was doing to her, everything they were doing to each other, so much more keenly.
His manhood touched the soft place between her thighs and even through layers of cloth, she felt it intimately. When she moaned and tried to squirm closer, he reached down and lifted the hem of her skirts. He paused, waiting for her to refuse him. She palmed him in response and would have undone the placard of his trousers to finally feel him in her hand if she’d been able to form a coherent thought.
She wasn’t.
He skated his fingertips through her triangle of hair, gently, teasingly. She trembled when he reached her bud, circling, stroking, slipping one finger inside her, then two. Sensations shot through her, as he pushed deeper, changed the angle and whispered desperate and filthy words in her ear. She’d never felt like this, tightening around him even as her thighs loosened and opened. She wanted more even as she raised on her toes, not sure if she could handle it. A beautiful kind of pressure built in her core, dragging her along.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me, Meg.”
His thumb worked her bud, the rhythm of his fingers never changing until she gasped, little sounds of pleasure that built into a silent tremble that overtook her completely. When she caught her breath and opened her eyes, he let her gown drop. She was dressed like a viscount’s daughter again, demure, elegant.
She felt anything but.
She reached for him. “I want to touch you now.”
A noise at one of the windows startled them. A branch, a bird. Or someone from the house, out for a walk. They weren’t as private and secluded as they felt. Reality was a cold bite that she thoroughly resented.
Dougal shook his head regretfully, before kissing her once more. “We should go.”