Blame It on Bath Page 0,90

bodice. He knew her breasts were exquisitely sensitive, and he was making the most of it.

“No?” His wandering touch paused. “I think it is—to me. I’ve wondered from the start why you proposed to me. Today you were jealous of my affections. Now you say, in a bit of reckless temper, you fought for me. How so?”

“I—I asked you.” He slid one palm down her body, pausing to fondle her breast. Kate quaked as his thumb rolled firmly over an aching nipple. “Normally a woman waits and hopes a gentleman will propose to her . . .”

“Hmm, yes.” He kissed her neck, a feathery touch of lips that sent sparks through her. “I like a bold woman.” His hand drifted down her belly. “But you’ve never quite satisfied me on one point: why me?”

Her brain went blank as his fingers curved lightly but unmistakably into the furrow between her legs. Even through her dress and petticoats she could feel his touch, the soft stroke of his fingers finding that hidden point of pleasure with unerring accuracy.

“I wanted you,” she whispered. Her hips moved helplessly, but she was caught. If she pressed backward, he was hard and promising against her bottom. If she moved forward, his fingers were there to drive her mad. She trembled from the effort of holding still.

He knew it, too. The heel of his hand bore her backward, and he flexed his hips. The pressure of his fingers between her legs and his erection at her back sent lust spilling through her. She wanted him, too much. She groped blindly for the table in front of her, not sure if she meant to balance herself or use it as an anchor point to pull away from him, but he forestalled both.

“Then you shall have me.” With one step forward, he brought her right to the edge of the table. With one last biting kiss on her shoulder, he pushed her down until her hands hit the polished surface of the table. “Why lie about that? If you wanted me in your bed, you only had to ask.”

“No, that’s not what I . . .” Her voice died as he scooped up her skirt, flinging it over her back. Now his hand was on her bottom, squeezing and shaping her flesh even as he held her immobile for the increasingly persistent touch of his other hand, still stroking her through her skirts. In spite of herself she was growing wet. Pray God no one passing through Queen Square looked up at this window . . .

“Then what did you mean, Kate?” There was a shush of cloth; he was unbuttoning his falls. She closed her eyes. She could feel the moisture between her legs now, as her shift grew damp where he pressed it against her.

“Just . . . you,” she said inanely. He slid his length, hot and thick, between her thighs, and her knees almost buckled. He was going to take her like this, from behind like an animal, bent over a table overlooking Queen Square, in the midst of an argument, and she was shaking with desire. She squirmed, not sure if she wanted to escape or spur him onward, and he responded by pressing the blunt head of his erection right against her—her—her quim. She blushed vividly; he had called it paradise.

“I can feel how much you do.” He nudged forward, and Kate shuddered. “Why lie?”

“I didn’t mean to . . .”

“But I mean to know why, just the same.” He pressed into her, and she squeaked; it felt different this way, more primal. He forced his feet between hers and hiked her onto her toes as he pulled out. “Why did you want me?”

“Because . . .” He thrust, and her body clenched so hard she heard him suck in his breath.

“Why, Kate?” He began stroking into her, hard and deep but relentlessly slow. Tears ran down her face as she braced herself to take him, wanting him even as he scraped away at her restraint. “Tell me why . . .”

“Stop,” she sobbed. “Stop asking!”

“Stop?” He paused midthrust, almost withdrawn. She moaned and tried to push her hips back into his. “You said stop,” he said, holding her in place easily. “Was there something you wished to say?”

Kate pressed a fist against her mouth. Her heart was burning, her body screaming. If he had been unaffected, she might have been able to do it, but she heard the roughness in his voice