This must be a dream…a hidden fantasy bourgeoning to life from abject misery, seeking something new and wonderful. Never had Edmond felt such an intensity of desire. This was an aberration…a distressingly enticing one.
She parted her lips on a sigh, and he took ruthless advantage. He allowed his tongue to stroke inside of her mouth, to twine with hers as he slanted her head, deepening an already far too intimate kiss. Her flavor exploded on his tongue, and he bit back the deep groan wanting to erupt from the cold place inside him that seemed to have thawed to molten lava. The taste of her was indescribable—sweet, warm, carnal. She whimpered, and then the timid slide of her tongue met his.
It took all of his years of discipline, not to tumble her onto her back, and take her. He worshipped her mouth, giving her no chance to retreat, and it distantly resounded that she did not want to flee from his embrace. She arched to him, her breasts unconfined beneath the nightgown she wore, and he itched to cup her breasts and feel her nipples stabbing into his palm.
She pulled from him, trembling. “I…I…between my legs…aches…Mr. Atwood, I…you’ve never kissed me like that before.”
Mr. Atwood?
“This is so wonderfully reckless, but kiss me again,” she breathed, sounding dazed, and if he was not mistaken, a bit tippled. “Kiss me again,” she demanded fiercely.
Yes, Edmond’s body shouted. But he wouldn’t. He called himself all sorts of foolish names. But he couldn’t allow it to go further, not when she clearly thought he was someone else. He would be more than a despicable cur to press an advantage. No matter how much his cock ached. “No,” he groaned, tempted beyond measure, pulling fully from her clasp.
As expected she froze at his voice. A tremor ran down her taut spine, and then she burst into a flurry of movements, twisting the sheets around her body in her haste. Unfortunately rubbing the soft pad of her ass into his lap. “Be still!”
“Please, no. No! This cannot be so…” Her whisper of dread and frantic movements only served to inflame his ardor. She twisted and he bit back a groan, as she rubbed at his aroused length.
His hips surged against his will, pressing harder into her, and she became motionless at the evidence of his desire.
He heard her gulp. Then she shivered. “Please let me go.”
He complied immediately.
As if afraid to make any sudden movements, she took her time sliding from his lap. Edmond wanted to curse, as the sinuous shift caused him to throb. He hissed a sigh of relief when her body was away from him completely.
Her erratic breathing was loud in the chamber.
“Who are you?”
Chapter Four
I am ruined by the wrong man.
Adel had suspected something was wrong from her dizzying reaction to the man’s closeness. Mr. Atwood had never made her feel such wanton heat from a mere touch. But she had foolishly dismissed the warning clangs away, thinking it was the fright and exhilaration of doing something so wickedly forbidden…and the mystifying power of the liquid courage.
There was a shuffle. Then a tinderbox was struck, and the candle on the nightstand was lit.
Her breath caught audibly and unknown sensations erupted below her navel. He was savagely beautiful, and nothing like her Mr. Atwood. The bold angles of this unknown man’s face hinted at restrained power. Cynicism and sensuality combined in the hard lines of his mouth. As she recalled the sublime taste and the feel of those firm, sensual lips, she trembled, noticing eyes that belonged to a hawk sharpen with interest. He continued to stare without speaking and a curious tightening sensation clenched deep inside, rooting her.
It made her feel very uncomfortable. In fact, he had a quality of stillness that she found unnerving. But it was his eyes…they were empty and devoid of the passion and intent she had certainly felt in his touch. Suddenly her heart ached for this man, whoever he was.
His expression was impassive. “I will ask again, who are you and why are you in my bed?” His tone was rough, and devilishly sinful.
Devilishly sinful…oh… She read too many romantic novels. Adel’s mortifying response must be on account of the few glasses of sherry. “Surely you do not expect me to own to my identity?”
He chuckled, the sound full of dark challenge. “Yes, in fact, I insist upon it.”
She blinked. He was most assuredly serious. The glow from the candle was very weak. If she could barely ascertain his features, surely he might not recognize her in the light of day. “I bid you good-bye,” Adel said.
She made to launch from the bed, and swifter than she tracked, a firm hand clasped her wrist. Sudden fear sliced through the false relaxation she had been lulled into by her liquid courage.