Page 38 of The Lady is Trouble

This is madness.

It was the last coherent thought to funnel through the carnal haze surrounding her.

Her arms rose to encircle his neck, her hands diving into the silken strands she had imagined touching in a hundred wicked dreams. The scent in the room—citrus, man, paint—lit her nose and her senses to a peak. She liquefied, melting into the wooden planks beneath her, pliable, mastered by his touch. His lips trailed her cheek, her jaw, a diverse seduction she couldn’t record or prepare for.

Her pulse had centered to a relentless thump between her legs. Never, never had she felt this reckless, this consumed by need, raw, urgent, indescribable.

It was an onslaught as he took complete and utter possession of her mind and body.

“God, Piper, I want,” he whispered on a rough exhalation. His lashes fluttered, revealing frantic, glazed eyes gone deep slate. “I want…”

“Then take,” she answered against his cheek. Following his example, she nipped his jaw, then laved it with her tongue, deciding his skin tasted like ambrosia.

His harsh oath evaporated in the sensual mist surrounding them as he trailed his fingers along the nape of her neck, a teasing dance over her shoulder. Along her collarbone, where he dipped his calloused fingertip inside the lace edge of her gown. Her breath too frayed to speak, she bumped her breast against his palm. With a low hum of approval, he curled his fingers around the sensitive mound, taking firm possession.

His thumb brushed her nipple, once, twice, then stayed to circle, over and over until she began to lose the battle, a familiar defeat. She had touched herself in the darkness of her bedchamber many times while thinking of Julian, wanting the sensations she created to come from his fingers, not her own.

Now, maybe her dream to break apart in his arms would be fulfilled.

She expressed her hope that it would without saying a word.

Seeking a resolution to the delirious wonder of his hard length pressed against her thigh, she slid her hands down his back and helped direct his movement. His shirt was free from his trousers, her fingers tracing bare skin before she realized what she was about. His hair fluttered about his face as he pulled back to stare at her, silken strands brushing her cheek in a charged touch.

Cheeks flushed, breath ripping from his lips, he looked bewildered and famished, his gaze so savage she marveled she was able to hold it.

“Is this how you look when you lose yourself in a painting?” she asked, as his pupils flared the color of a stormy sea.

And his aura, oh, his aura was something to behold.

She’d never imagined desire could destroy. Promises, rules, plans. She now understood why he’d fought so diligent a campaign, putting distance, rationale, heavy furniture when the situation called for it, between them.

She dug her nails in his back just where it sloped to his bottom, scraped his skin as she traveled in an abrasive glide to his shoulder.

“You unman me,” he said, his admission thrilling her to the tips of her toes. Which was not the kind of thing a gently-bred young lady should be thrilled by.

Incorrigible. Like everyone had always said.

Hardly knowing what she was about, she turned her head and caught his thumb between her teeth.

She liked when he used his teeth on her.

His brow dropped to hers as he released a staggered breath. “You’re not helping.”

“Our goals differ,” she whispered and slicked her tongue over his thumb as she sucked the calloused tip. His lashes fluttered against her skin before he recaptured her mouth without finesse or any of the restraint the ninth Viscount Beauchamp was renowned for. Yanking her gown low, he drew her peaked nipple between his lips, and her world spun away. The caress flowed to the outer reaches of her body, to her toes and the pads of her feet.

She felt reborn, appreciated in a way she’d never imagined she would be.

She strained to reach him, crawl inside and gathermore, whispered that very word, and surprisingly, he acquiesced. His hand left her breast and skated down her body: belly, hip, thigh. Locating her warm core without hesitation, his finger shot through a slit in her drawers and grazed moist flesh. She groaned and arched, her nipple bumping his teeth.

Pounding on the door brought them apart like a vase smashed against the floor. They scattered, a body-width between them as their eyes locked.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Her hair had come loose from the few pins remaining through the night and it lay in a tangle beneath her. Skirt at her waist, breasts exposed, she was utterly undone. Julian didn’t look much better, breath rushing forth as if he’d dashed from the main house and collapsed atop her. She held up a finger, opened her mouth, then shook her head and flopped to her back. There were no words. She doubted she’d recover, find herself—the woman without him—after this.

“Bloody, Humphrey,” she whispered and pressed her bottom into the planks to keep from tucking into his body.

Julian called out a warning. “Don’t come in! She’s here. Give us a moment.” Then he rolled to his back, arm going over his eyes, chest working beneath blood-stained linen.

“Are you all right?” she asked when she found her voice. He had popped one of her less-than-skillful stitches if the blood streaking his arm was any indication. His hair shot from his head at all angles, a tempting mess. A bead of sweat tracked his jaw; she was compelled to lick it off.