Page 29 of The Wallflower’s Great Escape (The Wallflowers’ Revolt #1)

T he carriage ride home was quiet but heavy with something Georgie couldn’t name.

Jason sat opposite her, his long legs stretched toward hers, his gloved hands resting on his knees. He didn’t speak, and neither did she, but she felt his gaze now and then, flicking to her like a touch she couldn’t quite shake.

Her pulse still thudded from the ball, from the waltz, from the way he’d looked at her while everyone whispered around them. From the way his hand had felt at the small of her back, firm and possessive.

She told herself it was nothing. But she knew it wasn’t.

When they arrived at Pembroke House, he helped her down with quiet, impeccable manners, his hand lingering at her waist a fraction longer than it needed to.

Inside, the butler took her shawl and gloves, and she murmured something vague about retiring, but she didn’t go upstairs.

Not yet.

Instead, she stood just at the foot of the grand staircase, fingers grazing the polished wood of the banister, watching as Jason shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the footman.

Their eyes met across the space. Neither moved.

It was she who turned first, moving toward the drawing room instead of the stairs, as though something larger than herself compelled her feet.

He followed without a word.

The room was quiet, lit only by the fire and a single lamp on the sideboard.

She stopped in the center of the rug, her back to him, hands clasped in front of her.

He came up behind her, his presence a low hum in her senses.

“Georgiana,” he murmured, his voice a little rough.

She turned then, and whatever restraint had been holding them both back all night finally snapped.

His mouth was on hers before she could draw another breath, his hands framing her face as he kissed her deep and dark and devastating.

Her fingers tangled in his waistcoat, clutching at him as though he were the only thing keeping her upright.

He backed her toward the settee, and when she fell into it, he came down with her, his body pinning hers against the cushions as his hands slid over her hips, her ribs, her breasts.

She gasped when his thumb brushed over her nipple through the fabric of her gown, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss, more bruising than before.

By the time his hand found the hem of her skirts and slipped beneath, she was already half-dazed, her legs parting instinctively to make room for him.

His fingers grazed her stockinged calf, then higher and higher, until he found the heat of her.

She broke the kiss on a sharp inhale, her head tipping back against the arm of the settee as he worked her open with deft, sure strokes.

It was maddening, slow and deliberate and overwhelming all at once. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his cravat, anything she could reach as she bucked helplessly against him.

When she finally came apart in his hand, it was with a soft cry that she tried—and failed—to bite back.

She could feel him hard against her hip even through his trousers, feel the tension in his body, the sheer restraint it cost him to stay where he was.

Her breath was still uneven, her lashes heavy, when she dared to look at him. His jaw was tight, his hair mussed, his lips slightly parted as he stared down at her. For one wild, hopeful moment, she thought he would lift her into his arms and carry her up to his bed.

But then he pulled back, his hand slipping from her skirts as he straightened.

Her chest ached at the sudden distance. She nearly sobbed.

He pressed a hand over his mouth for a moment, breathing hard, before he spoke.

“The last thing I want to do is pressure you, Georgiana. I have patience,” he murmured at last, his eyes still on hers. “And I intend to give you all the time in the world you need.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone on the settee—flushed, frustrated, and wanting more.