“If Justin was so misguided as to believe I might have—in a fit of Vaux temper, no less—killed Randall—and yes, I accept that it appears he did just that—then presumably he had some reason. When you find him, you might try asking him—not that I imagine he’ll share details of my private life, not with you.”
He felt his lips thin, felt control and success slipping from him. “Letitia—”
“Don’t you ‘Letitia’ me.” Her eyes narrowed to shards. She faced him directly. “You have no right to demand to know details of my marriage. You gave away that right years ago.”
No, he hadn’t. She’d taken that right away from him. He felt his face set, clamped down on his temper. “That’s not how I recall it.”
She opened her eyes wide. “It isn’t? How do you recall it, then?”
The flagrant challenge hit him like a gauntlet in the face. “Like this.” He caught her arms, yanked her to him and crushed her lips with his.
She resisted—tried to hold firm, passive, against him—for all of two heartbeats.
Then the fire that, apparently, never stopped smoldering between them leapt to life. Hungry and greedy, eager for more, heightened and strengthened by the previous night’s encounter.
Wanting more.
To his immense relief, she did. She made no secret of her desires, let them rise to meet his freely, slid deeper into his arms, pressed against him, and invited.
Satisfaction. Satiation. Consummation.
He knew that was where they were headed, that it was already impossible to change their course—that there was no real reason, at least none in his overheated brain, they should. She was a widow, and he was free. There was nothing to prevent them from indulging the passions that flared so hotly, so powerfully, between them.
But tonight he had another goal he hoped to achieve along the way. Passion was, in his experience, the only force strong enough to override her stubbornness. The only lever he could use to get her to tell him something that, for whatever incomprehensible reason backed by her feminine will, she refused to divulge.
So he gave her what she wanted, but held part of himself back. Enough to remain in control. Such as control was when they were together like this, wrestling in the flames.
That’s what it felt like, all greedy hands, heat and fire. Igniting at a touch, built by each passionate caress until it spread like wildfire beneath their skins. And they burned.
He waited until they both were—then waited some more.
Waited while he sat her on the edge of the big library desk, bared her breasts, then tasted his fill.
Until she was gasping; until, head back, she was clutching his head to her, reveling in his skill, in the increasingly hot caresses he pressed on her. He hadn’t been celibate for the last five years—not since he’d discovered she’d married. He’d learned a few things she didn’t know in that time, things he was very ready to share with her.
Things that would put her in the state most conducive to him getting some answers.
She was sitting on her gown, effectively encasing her legs and hips in stiff bombazine. He touched her through the fabric, caressed until she moaned, then with a scorching kiss—one that nearly cindered his plans—she made her wishes known.
In response he eased her off the desk, propped her against it, then drew her skirts up as he went to his knees before her. She blinked down at him, her eyes heavy with desire and clouded with lust, arched a brow when he caught her gaze. He inwardly smiled, knowing she’d relish the sight of him on his knees before her. She’d relish the sight even more when he was done.
He lifted her heavy skirts up and back, exposing her long, long legs; running his hands up the long curves from her calves to her hips, he pushed the skirts high, then tucked the fabric behind her so it was trapped by her hips against the desk’s edge—out of his way.
So that the only veil between him and the curls at the apex of her thighs was her filmy silk chemise. He ran his hands up beneath it, and she shuddered.
He looked up and saw she’d closed her eyes; a line of concentration furrowed her brow. He let his hands explore her jasmine-scented skin, the swells and hollows he’d first claimed so long ago; he hadn’t taken the time—had had no time—to reacquaint himself with them last night.
Tonight he took his time, until she grew restless. Until her hand tightened in his hair and she settled against the desk, parting her thighs. He glanced up at her, caught a glittering glimpse of gold and green from beneath her lashes. He smiled, and accepted her invitation, watching her face as, with the backs of his fingers, he lightly stroked the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs, then turned his hand and slid his fingers into the haven between, and caressed. She closed her eyes. He found her entrance and circled, time and time again, until her breasts were heaving, until her fingers tightened painfully in his hair. He slid one long finger into her, penetrated her to his full reach, then stroked slowly out. The tension holding her didn’t ease, but her grip on his hair did. He pressed in and stroked again, and eased closer.
Letitia shuddered. Pleasure spilled down her veins in a never-ending stream, one he continuously fed. The sight of him supplicant at her feet went some way to deadening her irritation with him—this, once again, wasn’t supposed to have happened.
But it had, and she wasn’t about to argue. Wasn’t about to deny herself the pleasure he and only he could give her.
Especially as he was so intent, and so assiduous, in doing so.
He knew how to pander to her senses; he clearly hadn’t forgotten. He knew just when to wait, when to take, when to demand. When to command.
Her hand in his hair helped keep her upright as the telltale tension, all fire and bright, glittering sensation, built and rose inexorably within her—fed, expertly orchestrated, by his caresses, explicit and increasingly intimate.