The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,43
hadn’t been a duke, he would have been a painter. Not a Royal Academy artist, but something experimental. He might not become famous, but he’d be happy and carefree. He wouldn’t have to be perfect.
And he wouldn’t marry Miss York. Not just because her family would never condone a courtship with a common painter, but because there would be no need for political allies and strategic marital dynasties. Instead, he could pursue whomever he wished. He’d be perfectly free to lean forward and—
“That.” Miss Wynchester’s voice was like warm honey. “Whatever you’re thinking at this very moment. That is what you should be doing.”
He’d been thinking of her. Of devouring her kiss by kiss, lick by lick, until she was limp and sated in his arms.
It was highly improper dinner party behavior.
His voice was hoarse. “I don’t think you understand what I…”
“Don’t I?” Her eyes were on his, her gaze intense and unwavering.
He tried to calm his runaway pulse, his carnal desires straining to be set free. She meant this. That he should be and do as he pleased.
But what he wanted would lead them both to ruin.
“My father…” His voice was too low, too rough. A rumble of thunder on a spring day. “Father was emotional and impulsive. It made him a laughingstock.” It had made Lawrence a laughingstock. “I will not compound his mistakes.”
Even if there was nothing he wanted more than to end this conversation by covering her mouth with his.
Her gaze searched his face. “What if it’s not a mistake? How will you know, if you keep yourself gaoled inside your head?”
Gaol. That was exactly what he should do with the urge to take her, kiss her, taste her. Lock those libidinous urges behind bars and throw away the key. It was the only way he would be strong enough to resist temptation.
“I…” Had he leaned closer? Had she? Their forbidden kiss was a breath away.
Her eyes sparked with challenge. “What would you do, Your Grace? If you were the sort of craven rogue who indulged his every desire. What impulse are you trying to fight?”
He reached up to touch her cheek. He should not have. Its softness was his undoing.
With no gaoler to stop him, there was only one thing Lawrence wanted…and she was right in front of him. He was done fighting. For the moment he would allow desire to break free from its chains.
He grasped her face, his fingers delving into the softness of her hair, and brought her to him. Heaven. Hell. His lips upon hers were less a kiss and more two souls crashing into each other, shattering and melding at the same time.
She smelled like honeysuckle and tasted like fresh tea. Had he thought he hated the flavor? He adored it when it came from her lips. No amount of sugar could compare to the sweetness of her mouth, the fierce rush of her fingers twisting in his hair.
Something fluttered in his chest, an unfurling, a rebirth. He explored the contours of her mouth, mapping each hidden corner to remember later, to revisit in his mind when he could not have her in his hands.
Both palms now cupped her cheeks. Not to keep her in place but to stop himself from skimming his eager hands down the column of her neck, the hollow of her back, the flare of her hips.
If he touched her there, he’d be tempted to pull her closer. To leave no doubt that kissing her was no fleeting impulse but a gale-force temptation he barricaded himself against every time he thought her name or saw her face. This was what he had hungered for. Her. Beneath his fingers.
Kissing her was as inevitable as the rain falling from swollen clouds, and just as impossible to hold in one’s hands forever.
He forced himself to wrench his mouth from hers, panting. He touched their foreheads together and tried to regain his breath. It was no use.
“Now you know.” The words were a growl, a plea. “All I can give is a moment’s passion. Do not ask me to uncage myself again, unless that is what you want.”
15
Chloe’s pulse skittered unsteadily as her carriage ferried her toward the Ainsworth residence. Her lips were tender and still tasted of the Duke of Faircliffe’s kiss. Her head swam every time she let herself remember the feel of his strong hands holding her face, the sensation of her own fingers rumpling his hair as though he were hers to dishevel.