most men in his position would simply take what they wanted, and didn’t she know it. She had forgotten all about it around him. But there was no doubt that right now, Montgomery wanted her badly. The tension humming in his muscles reverberated through her own body, and she could smell the salty note of an aroused male on him. If she stroked her hand over the front of his trousers, she’d find him hard. But the choice was hers.
A twinge of pleasure and pain throbbed in her chest.
Beautiful, wondrous man.
He had to know that alone in the dark, they were equals in their longing.
She slipped her hand beneath his coat.
He froze. Under the warm silk of his waistcoat, bands of muscle contracted, and the hardness against her knuckles left her reeling. She watched as her hand flattened against him . . . glided over the silver chain of his pocket watch to his ribs, then up the firm, tapered shape of his torso. So sleek, yet solid, so many strengths contained in one man . . . Slowly, her hand slid down again, down, down over his tense abdomen, over the outside of his trousers.
Montgomery seemed to have stopped breathing. His throat worked as he swallowed, as she hovered, hesitated . . . gently, gently, she pressed her palm against him. She gasped, unprepared for the jolt of pleasure that shot through her at the feel of him. Her fingers curved around him, and the soft grunt this drew from Montgomery set her blood on fire. The mighty man sounded . . . helpless. She caressed him again, inflamed by feeling him heat and twitch, by the rustle of fine wool against her palm.
With a groan, Montgomery clamped his hand over hers, and then her wrist was pinned against the smooth wood of the door and his lips were on hers. At the first taste, things turned fast and mindless. His free hand clutched her waist, hers roamed over his back, his nape, the slippery silk of his hair as his demanding mouth urged her from one kiss into the next. Reality dissolved into shadows and heat, the firm, soft urgency of a man’s kiss, the thick ridge of his desire.
A draft of cool air brushed the back of her knees. She blinked down and found her skirt wadding around her waist, and a hard male thigh invaded between hers. She moaned at the sudden pressure against her softest place.
“Yes,” he murmured, his fingers digging into the curve of her hip. Her uncorseted hip—he groaned into her mouth at the feel of it. His hand on her hip was guiding her in small, rhythmic thrusts against his thigh, and heat bloomed from the friction between her legs. She made an agitated sound. “Please, I can’t . . .”
He made a soothing noise and palmed her thigh, up and over her backside, finding the slit in her drawers from behind, and help, he was touching her. He was touching her there, with slick, knowing fingertips . . . It had only been minutes since the corridor; how could it come to this within minutes? Because they had been needing it for weeks. He stroked harder, and she melted around him as bliss curled through her, curled her toes . . . A finger slid inside her, and her spine arched as she gave a little cry.
They weren’t equal in this at all—he was leading her headlong into frantic oblivion.
Trapped between his thigh and his sliding fingers, devastating pleasure gathered and knotted, and she gripped his arm to stay him, but his muscles flexed so wonderfully as he was pleasuring her, steadily, relentlessly, the tension burst in a white-hot blaze, pulsing in her lips, her toes, her fingertips. Her next cry was muffled against his shoulder, Montgomery’s other hand clasping the back of her head.
She clung to him, her knees like water, the sound of her breathing a roar in her ears.
The fine wool of his coat was rough against her cheek.
He withdrew from her gently.
Behind closed eyelids, white dots flashed and faded like stars.
The haze cleared when his foot pushed at her instep. He was widening her stance, making a space for himself. His hand moved between them, and she knew then that he was working on the fastenings of his trousers.
He wanted her. Right here, standing up against the door.
Her fingers clenched in his shirt. “I . . . I don’t . . .”