Page 19 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
He stared, unable to find a witty retort. Compose a plea, a confession, an avowal. Make light of an impossible situation with a smile, laugh, or wink. He was undone by her beauty, by the bashful look on her face. By the knowledge she’d loved him when he wasn’t lovable, that she’d cared and, somehow, miraculously, hadn’t gotten over it.
Her eyes swept his body, her cheeks flushing, and he recalled his lack of proper clothing. Shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, faded trousers ripped at the knee and thigh, braces hanging limply at his hip. “I jilted Ridley,” she murmured when her gaze crawled back to his, so quietly he struggled to hear the admission.
But he did—and he was on his feet and across the room, pressing her against the doorjamb before either of them took another breath. Her basket slipped from her hand, plums bouncing along the scuffed planks.
“I know you can’t, that we won’t—”
“Don’t,” he said, his mind and heart tied in a feverish knot. “Just let me touch you with no one between us.”
She brought her hand to his chest.Don’t leave, he thought and pressed his lips to her hair. The silken strands smelled of pine and nutmeg, the kitchens and her conservatory, and he drew deeply, feeling grounded, feeling like he was home for the first time in forever.
“I’m not leaving,” she whispered and bounced to her toes, pressing her lips to his in an eager, artless move that pocketed what remained of his heart until she owned it all.
Grasping her shoulders, he moved her away from the door, slamming it shut with his boot. Then he dove in, meeting her hungry kiss with one providing what he’d long denied giving. Himself, love, forgiveness.
Everything.
He slowed, one hand sliding to her hip, the other rising to cradle the nape of her neck, taking each languid beat of time to show her. How they fit, how they belonged together. His tongue caressing hers, swirling, engaging, as she mirrored his efforts, turning the tables until she taught, and he learned. What she liked, what she craved, what made her release those helpless, panting breaths against his lips. Mouths molded, blood racing, hearts thumping.
Hand moving to her lower back, he brought her in, hips pressed, his body straining for release.
Want, need,yearning.
She whimpered and wiggled from his grasp, brought her hands to his shirt and fumbled with the bone buttons. “Off.”
He smiled and tipped her head high, her eyes meeting his. “I can’t promise to make it last, not the first time. Not when I want you this badly. I’ll be better after. It’s been…it’s been a long time, Princess. It’s been forever.” Swallowing hard, he pressed an impatient kiss to her brow. “Tell me you’re sure. I need to know you’re sure.”
She mouthed the words—first, after—with curiosity in her eyes, and his heart bottomed out. She hadn’t known…? Had believed touching her once would be enough?
Grabbing her hand, he pulled her down the short hallway and into the lodge’s lone bedroom. A fire blazed in the hearth, a breeze from the window he’d cracked to allow winter entry sending the flames dancing. He’d been sleeping here, not the main house. Which was evident from the linen shirt tossed across the armchair, the book of Shelley’s poems on the bedside table, his razor and strap sitting atop the nicked armoire. His ledgers and correspondence scattered over a desk he’d appropriated from storage.
Brushing past him, she walked to the center of the room and turned in a tight circle, taking it in. His private space. His private life. “So, this is where the duke lives.”
He waited for her gaze to make it back to his. Her eyes were magnificent in the muted light, as blue-green as the lake on the western edge of his estate. “This is where Tristan lives. The duke you speak of”—he shrugged, not able to answer—“I don’t know him well. Maybe someday, I will.” He moved a step closer. “But know this. I want you here. I wantushere. More than you can imagine. And this is a place I’ve never brought another living soul.”
She crossed to him and wordlessly started unbuttoning his shirt. When he took a stuttered inhalation as her fingers brushed his chest, she glanced at him through long, dark lashes. “I propose we get the first time out of the way since you made the second sound so thrilling. Apologies for being forward.”
“I like it,” he whispered and allowed her touch, knowing he was giving her even more of himself than she imagined. When she saw…
As his shirt fluttered to the floor, her soft gasp lit the air. Witnessing the mottled scar on his shoulder for the first time, she didn’t react as expected. She didn’t ask him to share a memory he wasn’t sure he could share yet. She simply pressed her lips to a wound that had almost killed him on a somber battlefield, healing him as the calvary’s surgeon hadn’t.
When she began to shadow the trail of hair arrowing down his chest and into his waistband, his lips seized hers, and he backed her toward the bed. His cock couldn’t take direct contact, not if he wanted to make it inside her without shattering.
With a wicked smile, he wrapped her hands around the bedpost and stepped behind her. “Hold on, Princess. As hard as you need to.” Then he began to undress her—ties, buttons, hook and thread loops—deliberately relaxed, caressing each bit of skin he exposed to his hungry gaze. A light dusting of freckles on her shoulder, a pale scar on her lower back. Slim hips, firm thighs, delicate ankles. Leaving no part of her untouched, he recognized he was unjustly seducing her, kissing, nibbling, stroking, retreating, leaving her naked, gasping, aroused.
When she released a pointed growl of impatience, he kicked aside her puddle of clothing and rose to his feet. “I’m being unfair,” he murmured and began to slide her hairpins free. Leaning in, he brushed his lips along the delicate curve from her shoulder to the nape of her neck. “Inequitable attention.”
“You’re a bounder,” she sighed, her cheek pressed to the bedpost, her eyes closed, her skin moist, her breathing heavy.
“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, Camille Bellington. I want you to know that before I lose myself in you, when I’ll be unable to string together a sentence, I fear.” He drew his thumb down her spine, rolling over each pressure point with deliberate intensity. “Turn around.”
“Take the trousers off. And the drawers. Every piece while I watch. To balance out the inequities, you see.” Opening her eyes, she gazed at him over her shoulder. “Then, I’ll do whatever you like.”
His fingers fumbled with the buttons on his close, trying to hide his surprise that she was willing to play. He loved exploring, loved going off-script. But it wasn’t customary. One had to be extremely comfortable to follow such impulses, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever trulybeencomfortable with anyone.
Not completely. Not like this.
“Oh,” she breathed when he finally stood before her, unclothed, rigid, aching with need. She’d turned around, as promised, her gaze doing a painfully laborious study.