mouth. “In so many ways.”
His eyes flared.
She could not be this close, physically, without wanting him. This waiting was torture.
He dipped his head and hovered his mouth over her lips. “I want to,” he whispered. “I want to take care of you.”
She tasted his breath in her mouth. “I want you.” She was open—crystal clear. She didn’t care if he could see right through her.
“I want to give you everything.” His hand caressed her arm, moving around to her bodice. Tabetha arched her breast into his palm.
Please. Please. Please, she chanted in her mind. And then, out loud, “Please.”
He dropped his head and hand at the same time. “Not yet.”
But Tabetha heard his labored breathing. She felt his chest rising and falling the same as hers. She seized hold of his wrist and drew it back to her breast. “Please.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” But his fingers were stroking her over the fabric. “We need to wait.”
Frustrated, Tabetha tugged at her bodice, exposing herself to him. He faltered, gazing down at her. “God, Tabetha.” The appearance of his hands on her flesh was an erotic sight. Dark and white. Hard and soft. Man and woman. “You’re perfect.” He inhaled, and his eyelids dropped even as he dragged the tip of his tongue over his lips.
The heat of his palm, the flexing, the tight kneading, sent liquid fire pooling to her center.
“I want your mouth on me.” She wanted his mouth everywhere.
He dropped his head again, but this time, giving in to her demand, trailing his mouth down her shoulder—and lower. Grazing his face along her plump sensitive mounds.
How could she ache everywhere and feel like a shooting star at the same time? She threaded her fingers in his hair. So soft, thick, springy.
“Ah!” She gasped when his mouth claimed one rosy tip—sucking, pulling, tugging. More of that pain. More of that pleasure. He pushed her bodice lower, and she savored the feel of his hands—soothing places rarely touched, massaging lower and squeezing her waist.
Tabetha parted her legs, annoyed with her gown for keeping her from rubbing herself against him. She needed… She wanted… “Rock!”
His mouth abandoned his onslaught, allowing air to rush in and cool her skin and leaving her feeling quite, quite bereft.
“No!” She didn’t want him to stop. Why was he doing this to her?
“Shhh…” He tucked her face against his chest, and Tabetha could hardly distinguish the sound of his racing heartbeat from hers.
“Picnic.” His voice vaguely pricked her awareness. “We’re here for a picnic.” Tabetha stifled a protest, and he nodded to himself while deftly adjusting her bodice.
When he was done, he took her hand and drew her to the table.
Rejection brought tears to her eyes.
“Ah, duchess.” He pulled out the bench for her and then moved around to the opposite side of the table. “Don’t cry. Don’t make me break my promise.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she could see that his face was flushed. He clutched his hands into fists.
She nodded. This hurt in ways she never could have imagined.
“I want you to break that promise but not if you will regret it.” Her hand shook when she opened the basket. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
Rock lifted out a bottle of wine. “You are?”
“Of course.”
He stared at her a moment and then nodded. “Mrs. Hettrick said the meat pies are on top. The ones on the bottom have fruit filling.”
Tabetha forced a smile. She did not want to ruin their day with her frustrations. “I love meat pies. But I also enjoy fruit pies. Raspberry is my favorite and after that, apple. Cook tried to teach me how to make them, but I didn’t pinch the edges together properly and the filling oozed out.” In that moment, she remembered the feeling of the syrup burning her fingers.
She remembered the scent of cooking pastries hovering in the kitchen like a warm comforting cloud. And a familiar weathered face.
And then… It slipped away.
She felt Rock watching her but didn’t look up. “I’m all right,” she assured him. “It’s there. It’ll come.”
But what if it didn’t?
Then again, what if it did?
Chapter 17
Romance in the Air
“I’m going to miss you, Mrs. Chester,” Wilma said as she drew the brush through Tabetha’s hair. “It’s not often we have fine ladies such as yourself stay more than a single night.”
“I’m not a lady, though.” Tabetha stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was not officially a lady; she was a missus. She was ladylike, however. The thought