Page 41

His expression slackened and his lids lowered halfway.

Was that desire she was seeing in his eyes, by the dim light of the lamp?

She’d never seen a man look at her with desire—not counting those horrible cretins in the East End the other night—and wasn’t sure if she could identify it.

But then he pulled on her hand causing her to tip forward, to fall against him. Her palms flattened against his chest and her hips slammed into his.

Oh.

Oh yes, he was most definitely aroused.

“Your Grace,” she breathed.

But he gave a sharp shake of his head. What had they been talking about? Oh yes, what she should call him. “Effinghell?”

Another shake of his head.

Her tongue darted across her lips, and his gaze dropped to it.

“Alderbury?”

This time his headshake was slower, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Milord?” Nothing. “Alistair?”

His gaze flicked back up to meet hers, and she saw approval there.

“Alistair,” Olivia breathed.

His lips claimed hers.

Yes.

She knew approval when she felt it, and she was most definitely feeling it now.

Yes.

His lips teased and nipped and played, and then his tongue—oh, his tongue!—his tongue got involved, and she forgot whatever comparisons she’d been about to make.

Just when she was really getting into the swing of this kiss—her second one ever!—Alistair straightened. She blinked in time to catch his glance toward the bedside table.

Was he looking at the lamp—oh, the cheeses? His gaze landed on her plate and his lips curled.

Slowly he plucked her right hand from where it rested against his chest, and lifted it. For a moment, he seemed to study her fingertips, then without warning, moved them to his mouth. When he pulled her index finger between his lips, his tongue lapped at the neglected honey.

Olivia whimpered as her knees buckled.

But his other arm was around her, pulling her flush against him, holding her, supporting her. He really was remarkably strong, remarkably tall. She’d probably make time to think about that later, but for now, she couldn’t tear her attention away from the heated look of promise in his eyes, or the sensation of his tongue caressing her skin.

Alistair drew her finger from his mouth, but didn’t release her. Instead, he dragged his tongue toward the base of the finger, until it flicked against the sensitive web of skin between the index and middle.

Of course, she hadn’t known that skin was so sensitive, until just that moment.

Her eyes had grown wide, and she was having trouble getting enough air to her lungs. Then his teeth scraped against the inside of her finger, and she gave a little squeak and almost slapped him.

Goodness, who would’ve guessed her finger could be tied so directly to her core? No, what had The Book called it? That strange new word. Her cunny.

He was grinning, that self-satisfied way men have when they think they’ve done something right.