Page 27 of My Lord Rogue
He let go of her hips, hands sliding up her sides, the silk wrapper bunching beneath his palms. She was trembling, but so was he. He had not realized how close he was to the brink. He could feel her heart hammering in her chest, could taste the salt of her sweat at the hollow of her neck.
Her mouth found his at last, lips parting, tongue seeking his. The kiss was messy, desperate, nothing like the rehearsed pecks of the ballroom. She bit his lower lip, drew blood. He tasted iron and her, and he wanted more.
He crushed her against him, every inch of her body mapped to his. The silk was an insult, a barrier, and he wanted to tear it off. But not yet. Not until she begged for it.
She broke the kiss, panting, her cheeks flushed. “If you stop now, I will murder you.”
He laughed, the sound hoarse. “I would deserve it.”
He shifted his grip, hoisted her up and carried her to the desk, her legs parting to bracket his waist. Her wrapper slipped, exposing the pale flesh of her thigh. He ran his hands up, trailing slow, deliberate circles, watching the way her breath hitched with each inch.
He kissed her again, softer this time, letting the anticipation coil between them. The world had shrunk to this—her, him, the fire, the books. Nothing else existed.
He broke the kiss, lips lingering at her ear. “Tell me to stop,” he dared, voice rough with need.
She shook her head, eyes burning. “I want you to ruin me,” she said, and the words hit him like a blow.
He did not reply. He let his lips answer for him, moving down her throat, along her collarbone, lower.
She threw her head back, baring her throat to him like an offering.
He steadied her, at last, with both hands—one at the small of her back, the other cradling the side of her face. Her skin was fever-hot under the silk, damp with the exertion of want. For a heartbeat, Josiah allowed himself to simply look at the wild tumble of her hair, at the bruise his mouth had left at her clavicle, at the expression in her eyes—half-wild, half-terrified, utterly alive.
He should have claimed her then and there, torn the wrapper from her body and taken her against the shelves like an animal. It would have been easy, almost inevitable. But there was something ceremonial about the moment, a sacredness he dared not violate with haste.
He stepped back, breath ragged, and let his hands fall to his waistcoat. His movements were slow, almost theatrical. He shrugged out of the waistcoat, letting it drop to the carpet, before yanking his shirt over his head.
He caught her watching, lips parted, chest heaving beneath the thin wrapper. The fire cast her in shifting gold and shadow, an idol on the verge of revelation. He wanted her to see him, to know him as something more than the baron, more than the mask he wore for the world.
When he wore only his trousers, he paused. “Your turn,” he said, voice so hoarse it was barely a voice at all.
She did not flinch. Her hands went to the knot at her waist, untying it with the ease of habit. The wrapper parted, silk slipping away from her shoulders, then lower, exposing the pale slopes of her breasts, the pink tips gone dark and tight with cold or hunger or both.
She let it fall to the desk, pooling around her hips. Beneath, she wore nothing—no chemise, no stays, only the bare, curvaceous body he had been dying to see.
She sat before him, chin high, daring him to look and not to flinch.
He looked.
Every part of her was beautiful, and none of it the way he had imagined. Her hips were rounder, her belly soft. Her thighs, strong from years on horseback, were open, begging for his touch.
She was trembling, but her eyes were steady on his face.
Josiah could not breathe. He had been with dozens of women, in half the countries of Europe, and yet this moment felt more perilous than any duel, any seduction, any act of war. He wanted to go slow, to savor, but he was so hard he ached.
He reached for her, but did not touch.
“Theodosia,” he said, and her name was a prayer.
She leaned into him, arms wrapping around his neck, the heat of her bare skin sending a jolt up his spine. He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaled the wild, animal scent of her, andlet his hands wander, reverent, up her back, down her sides, across the generous curve of her arse.
She pressed into him, desperate, and he could feel the slickness at the inside of her thigh, proof of her want. He shuddered.
“God, you’re perfect,” he said, and meant it.
She laughed, low and vicious. “You’re a liar, but I like the way you lie.”
He slid his hands down, gripping her thighs, lifting her until her legs locked around his waist. She was heavier than he expected, and he relished the effort, the way her nails dug into his shoulder as he staggered them both toward the fire.