The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,28

a more coherent exclamation.

He was kissing her.

Despite the physical onslaught, she understood his motivation and it was not an overwhelming desire for her. Of course not. He thought to kiss her to prove himself an adept kisser. That was clearly his mercenary goal. Well, he could stuff that notion. She would not be swayed . . .

He deepened the kiss, his lips slanting over hers, and the pressure made her belly flip.

Blast it.

Imogen knew a thing or two about kissing, too. No one would ever think it of her. Not her father, not any of the residents of Shropshire—especially not Mr. Butler. By his own admission, he never thought of her at all. He certainly never thought of her lips.

Indeed, she knew enough about kissing to know that he was a good kisser.

It had been years, but there was a time when she, in fact, had frequent practice. She kept that part of who she was a secret. She had buried it so deep that sometimes she even forgot that part of herself ever existed. A deliberate ploy, of course. She didn’t want to remember that particular part of her history.

But in this moment, she remembered.

Kissing was like breathing, it seemed. One never forgot how to do it.

As his mouth moved over hers, she felt a stirring in her blood, a definite sputter and crackle to life that prompted a reaction she could not deny.

It had been too long.

That’s what she would tell herself later.

He was too handsome. His mouth too hot, too persuasive, too addictive.

My life too lonely.

She melted against him, leaning into him, immediately and achingly aware of the firm pressure of his chest against her breasts. He brought his other hand up, burying it in her hair, mussing her coiffure, but she did not mind. Suddenly that breach seemed the smallest of concerns as shivers of pleasure eddied through her.

She parted her mouth on a sigh . . . or perhaps it was no sigh at all and a deliberate opening of her lips. An invitation so she could have more of a taste of him—so that he could have more of a taste of her.

He accepted by sliding his tongue into her mouth, slow and languorous as though he were savoring her. Her tongue met his and giddiness swelled through her at the first touch.

He tasted of warm whisky.

She knew from the one glass she had snuck on the evening of Winifred’s wedding. She’d been staying at her uncle’s house for the grand occasion. After the ceremony she had found herself alone in a room with a decanter and tray and she’d poured herself a drink, needing the fortification, and perhaps because she was seeking a little numbness, too. He tasted of that dark and spicy whisky now . . . and man. Tempting maleness. All her womanly places quivered in response.

She dove into the kiss—into him, bringing her hands up to clutch his jacket and yank him even closer, however impossible that may be. They were already crushed against each other. So close she felt the pound of his heart against her. So close no air even passed between them. She was no longer certain where her body ended and his began and still she wanted more.

She kissed him with fervor and pent-up longing, not even realizing until this moment that she had missed this in her life. Passion. Intimacy. The discovery and learning of another’s taste—the texture and shape of another’s lips.

Except this felt better than she remembered. More unrestrained. More desperate. Hungrier.

She’d never felt want like this. Never felt a need that shook her to her core.

It was impossible to stop. Impossible to resist.

She would not even try.

Chapter Eight

Perry was kissing the vicar’s daughter.

The only thing more shocking would be if he were kissing the good vicar himself.

Contrary to what he said, Perry was not indifferent to Imogen Bates. He never had been. Quite the opposite. Just as she did not like him, he did not like her.

Even before he’d heard her speaking those ridiculous lies about him there had always been this . . . tension between them. Whenever she was in his orbit his stomach grew unsettled. His skin prickled and the back of his neck felt tight. He had assumed it was dislike.

Perhaps there was more to it though because he was kissing her hard, like he was a man starved for this woman.

But then he supposed liking someone was not a prerequisite for intimacy. At least for some gentlemen.