The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,41

than anything she had felt, ever. And he was giving it to her, making her feel him, making her insane for more.

Then, suddenly, his hand was between them, between her legs, on her, touching her through her skirts. Air hitched in her throat. He stroked and the sweetest, hottest sensations tripped through her. Wild need collected. So swiftly, she throbbed. The ache was sublime, his caresses a mastery of restraint and encouragement at once, exactly what she wanted. Needed. Desperately, desperately. She rocked her hips, bearing down on him. She had never imagined this pleasure. Never this.

He groaned and his fingers went deeper. “Sweet Elle,” he whispered. “Whatever you do now”—he captured her lower lip with his teeth—“don’t lift your skirts.”

That was all it required. Everything burst, her pent breaths, her trapped moan, and the coiled pleasure under his hand. Cascading in shudders of heat, it seized her body, making her cling to him and cry out as he urged her through it.

When the final, stuttering sigh escaped her lips, he took her face between his palms and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling him with her whole body pressed to his and the hunger in his kiss.

“Shouldn’t have let that happen,” he said, his lips barely leaving hers to utter the words.

“This is—”

He held her mouth to his.

“This is a—” she tried anew, but he took her lips again, then again. She loved his mouth, his kisses, how he gave and took at once. She could kiss him forever.

“This is a moment,” she finally managed to say upon laughter, “when if you used a pronoun I would comprehend where I stand much more clearly.”

He lifted his head only enough to look bemusedly into her face. “You’re standing in my arms in my house. Rather, in my foyer, good God.”

She was smiling too widely. But she had never felt like this, like a hot, sated rag doll who could nevertheless lift off the ground at any moment and fly.

“Who should not have let that happen?” she said.

“I shouldn’t have let it happen, of course,” he said, his hands still surrounding her face, his arms still framing her shoulders, and the rest of his body making no indication that it intended to release her from entrapment against the wall any time soon. “You’ll never trust me again.” The intensity of distress in his eyes stole her breath.

She slid one hand inside his coat and felt all the taut muscle of him.

“You did not let it happen,” she said. “You made it happen, as you make everything happen that you want. For it, I am grateful.”

A decidedly roguish smile curved his lips. “Are you?”

She licked her tender lips and nodded. His gaze locked on her mouth and everything inside her got weak with fresh heat. His Adam’s apple rose and fell sharply.

“You’ve got to go,” he said deeply. “Out of my house. Now. Immediately.”

“That would probably be best.”

Swiftly he buttoned her gown as she straightened her hair, then he guided her outside with haste.

~o0o~

She allowed him to drive her home, but she did not invite him to enter the building. Before the door, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. The soft kiss made her want to sing.

The curate’s young wife had visited this evening, as she did once a week when Mr. Brittle required Elle to stay late at the shop. Tonight she had lit a candle in Gram’s room. It was beeswax, brought from the church so she could read aloud to Gram. Mrs. Curtis had left it because she knew Elle could not afford sweet, clean beeswax. She could barely afford tallow.

Blowing out the flame, Elle swallowed back the thickness in her throat. There was such kindness in the world. Without it, she and her grandmother would not have survived even until now.

“Were you . . . at the . . . shop?” her grandmother rasped.

“No, Gram.” She wrapped her hand around her grandmother’s fragile fingers. So little life crept through these limbs now. The sickness had wasted her, slowly, cruelly. That there could be in the same reality her grandmother like this and a strong, big, muscular man so full of life seemed utterly impossible. “Tonight I was—”

“With him.” Her grandmother’s whisper smiled.

“I kissed him. That is, he kissed me. Well, we kissed each other.” And touched and exploded in pleasure. She exploded. He exhibited heroic restraint.

“Tell me about him.”

“He likes to smile. And laugh. He is kind. Affectionate. And honorable.”