Simple heat, simple hunger.
And a yearning that welled from her soul. That touched her in a way she’d never felt before, that swelled and grew and drove her.
Drove her to twine her fingers in his hair and clutch as his hand, drifting down from her jaw, feathered over her breast, then closed.
Through the taut satin, one artful finger circled her ruched nipple, and she mentally gasped.
Waited. Poised on a cliff edge of elusive tension, wanting to know yet more.
His lips left hers. From beneath her lashes, she watched him glance down, to where his hand cupped her firm flesh.
His fingers lightly closed, then he glanced at her. After an instant, he closed the distance and brushed his lips over hers again, then drew back.
“You’re curious.” His tone made it a discovery.
She blinked, breathed back, “How can you tell?”
“I can taste it.”
Did curiosity have a taste, a texture?
“You want to know about this.” His fingers shifted again.
Her nerves leapt, and she shivered.
“I’ve a confession to make.” His voice was low, a gravelly rumble. “I want to know, too. Want to see where this…”—his fingers drew another shuddering response from her—“leads. Yesterday, at the castle, when you insisted on leaving, when you turned and gave me your hand I very nearly seized you, tossed you over my shoulder and carried you off to my bed.”
“Oh?” Some totally wanton part of her wished he had.
“Yes.” Gervase paused, hand caressing, fingers stroking, then went on, “Just so you know you’re not the only one affected, not the only one involved here.” Caught. Trapped.
By what, he didn’t know.
He drew her back into his arms, back into the kiss, steeped them both in the moment, in the spiraling sensation and welling need—as far as he dared. With her and him, and where they were, there was only so far they could go.
With real reluctance, he lifted his head, drew breath—felt the pounding in his veins, compulsive, insistent, demanding. Sensed the same in her.
Her lashes fluttered, then she focused on his face.
“Have you changed your mind yet?”
She blinked at him, not once, but twice, before comprehension swam into her gaze. Then she snapped out of the spell—theirs, not his alone—and eased back out of his arms. “No.”
He hadn’t expected any other answer, not yet, but despite the words her less-than-certain, faintly puzzled tone sent his spirits soaring. She was wavering, yes!, but experience warned the time to press was not yet. She had to come to him of her own accord, for her own reasons; she was that sort of woman. An independent lady.
Letting his face set, he coolly stated, “If that’s the case, then we’d better get back to the ballroom.”
She hadn’t wanted to return to the ballroom, a fact that demonstated just how completely her besetting sin had overwhelmed her good sense. Climbing the castle steps the next morning, Madeline sternly lectured herself—yet again—that under no circumstances should she allow Gervase to embrace her again.
The instant his arms settled around her, her besetting sin came to the fore…and turned her into some wanton creature who simply had to know more. Far more, she was convinced, than would be good for her.
Striding into the front hall, she saw Gervase’s butler gliding from the nether regions to greet her. “Good morning, Sitwell.” Halting, she tugged off her gloves, acknowledging Sitwell’s bow with a nod. “I’m here to see his lordship. Where may I find him?”
“I’m here.” Gervase stepped from the mouth of a corridor. He nodded to Sitwell. “Thank you, Sitwell. I’ll ring if I need you.”
As the butler bowed and withdrew, Gervase turned to her. He met her gaze, read the determined, businesslike expression she’d plastered on her face. His lips curved, too knowing for her liking. “I was on my way to the library. If you’d care to join me?”
She nodded. “Indeed.” She kept her tones brisk. “I have some information you need to know.”