Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,54
came and went.
She let out an impatient huff and rose up on her toes.
She kissed his cheek, as lightly as a rose petal might brush his skin.
But it lasted a fraction longer.
She was so close, he could feel her breast against his arm. All his senses took her in—the heat of her nearness, the whisper of muslin against his legs, the scent of her: a hint of sweat and a stronger hint of Woman.
And so, naturally, he leapt straight into trouble.
“I must kiss you now,” he said.
Cassandra’s breath came faster. So did his.
“No,” she said.
“Why not?”
In a dark inner dungeon a former self she kept prisoner there and tried to starve to death was asking the same question.
Why not?
In close quarters, he was inescapable. Every breath she took was him: pure male, musky, spicy, sweaty, and more, an atmosphere she was too dizzy to try to sort.
The air about her seemed to thrum with his physical power. Hers, too. She’d never before felt so aware of her body, its strength and agility and the life of its own it seemed to have taken on, as though her physical self and her brain had only a passing acquaintance.
She’d stood in a rare, electric state of mind, while he fussed over her clothes and her hat, and tucked in her hair. All done as briskly as could be, and yet. And yet . . .
The nearness of his big body. The heat and scent. The whisper of their clothing with each movement.
Feelings stirred inside her. Rebellious feelings. Why must a woman always behave? Why must she be the one to fight temptation?
The hidden self said, When will you have another chance like this?
She turned her head, presenting her cheek.
He leaned in, big and warm and inescapably a man and yes, a little mad and certainly bad.
His lips touched her cheek, like the brush of a butterfly wing, but then not like that at all. A kiss, not merely a touch.
Pressure, gentle and warm. She wanted to cry.
He stayed for the length of a heartbeat. Then another. Then another. And the feelings took over. All the irrational, useless emotions she’d tried to subdue after their wonderful fight, when she’d tried to pretend she was fully composed while inside her chaos danced, wild and dangerous and . . . happy.
Now, pretending was beyond her.
He was so much closer than he’d ever been before, even in the carriage. His breath, on her skin. His mouth, firm yet gentle, bestowing a kiss so sweet and so utterly unlike anything she could have expected from a bent-for-hell libertine. Sweet and gentle and soft, it set off a tumult inside her.
Old emotions, dreams, wishes were escaping from the mental boxes where she’d kept them locked up for so long, they ought to have crumbled to dust and she ought to have forgotten.
She needed to put them back. Now.
She brought her hand up and laid it on his sleeve.
Her brain—the sensible part—said, That’s enough.
The voice of a wild, rebellious, and deluded girl said, Don’t stop now.
She heard him catch his breath.
She told herself to take her hand away, but it only tightened on his arm.
Do it. Now. What other man will ever give you this chance? the voice whispered. What other man will want you as you are, even for a moment? What does it matter if he’s a rake and this is only a game to him? Why can’t it be a game to you?
She turned her head so that their mouths were inches apart . . . and then she closed the distance.
Time to stop now, said Ashmont’s brain.
But it’s only starting to get good, said his cock.
A better man would have listened to his brain.
He wasn’t a better man.
He cupped her face and kissed her. He meant to do it gently, and it started that way. And that was all right because she was new at this, clearly. The trouble was, new or not, she caught on instantly, and the first tentative and unsure response quickened into assurance, and that rocked him on his heels.
He forgot about her father and aunt. He forgot about points. He forgot everything he ought to have remembered. All he knew was now, and the instant surge of heat as their lips met and clung.
I burn. I pine. I perish.
Yes, yes, he should have pulled away. A part of him—the brain part—saw disaster looming. But he wasn’t used to self-restraint.
He held her, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw. He