Lady Bridget's Diary(67)

“I love how you feel against me,” he whispered, skimming his hands along her waist, her hips, everywhere. She felt just how much he loved it. And she felt herself lean into his every touch.

Then he pressed another hot kiss along her neck. Sparks. She felt sparks.

“I’m too plump,” she mumbled. “I’m too . . .” She was going to list all the reasons he couldn’t possibly want to do this with her.

Darcy pulled away from her. Held her face in his hands. Looked her in the eye.

“No, you are not,” he said in his I-­am-­a-­lord-­I-­am-­right voice.

“Oh,” she sighed. Oh, why hadn’t anyone ever said that to her before? Oh, why hadn’t she known? Oh, why did it have to mean so much to hear him say it? Oh, why did he have to make her feel like this?

Like she couldn’t remember why she had refused him, even though she’d had very good reasons, she was certain of it.

“I have longed to kiss you here,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the delicate skin just above the line of her bodice. Sparks. She felt more sparks. In a hoarse whisper he continued, “I long to kiss you everywhere.”

She felt his words. Everywhere.

“Bridget . . .” Her name was a plea, a question, in a voice laden with longing.

Then he kissed her.

She could taste how much he wanted her. He was confounding. Maddening. But dear Lord above, did the man know how to kiss a woman. The more he kissed her, the more she forgot about slights, perceived or real. She forgot about ladylike rules of behavior. Nothing mattered anymore except this strange, new wonderful feeling of his lips against hers. A tingling of her skin. A heat in her belly. A feeling of being wanted, desperately wanted. She couldn’t get enough of it.

She kissed him back. She touched him, feeling his hard chest beneath her palms. His heart pounded. He wanted her and there was no pretending otherwise. Thinking soon became impossible, save for one thought: Yes. More. Bridget felt hot inside. She wanted more, and yet the more he kissed her, the more she wanted.

Then he gently pushed aside the sleeves to her gown and dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. Sparks. His hands rested on her shoulders, slowly sliding the silk away, moving lower. Smolder.

There was just enough light to see him gaze up her, asking with his eyes for permission. She sighed. That was all, just a little sigh of pleasure.

“I wanted to do this ever since that day in the lake.”

He teased the centers of her breasts with his thumb, lightly, back and forth. She sucked in her breath as her nipples stiffened under his touch and the cool air.

Then when he did the same with his mouth, she gasped, and something in her core tightened. She moaned in pleasure. And forgot to breathe. She’d had no idea that he had wanted her like this, and had wanted her for so long.

And that was almost as arousing as that wicked thing he was doing with his mouth. To her breast. In the butler’s pantry. How so very un-­Darcy.

“Bridget . . .”

He kissed her again. She pulled him in close, savoring the sensation of his body against hers. She felt him, hard, pressing into the vee of her thighs. She couldn’t help but move against him, driven by instinct and desire. “Yes . . .” he rasped. “Please . . .”

His hands skimmed up her thighs; she felt his hands pause where her silk stockings ended and her bare skin began. This was dangerous territory now, wicked territory, unknown territory. Whatever it was, every nerve in her body was aching for more of his touch.

“Yes,” she whispered.

As they kissed, his fingers pressed upon her secret place and she moaned softly. He knew just what to do, just how to touch her, to fuel her desire, to make that maddening tension within become tighter and tighter. Here, just as she was, bare to him, there were no rules to follow. She gave in to instinct and surrendered to her desire for this man.

And then it was all a blur of sensations: the feeling of his soft hair between her fingers; his lips upon hers; his fingers, there, driving her mad in the most wonderful way; the sound of her skirts rustling as she moved; the sound of his breath; the pounding of her heart.

And then she could take it no more. She cried out in pleasure; he captured the sound with a kiss.

Bridget melted against him, breathing hard, trying to comprehend what had just happened to her. Something had changed. Everything had changed.

“Bridget . . .”

Desire for his touch, his kiss, for him was making her lose her wits. Gone was the woman who demanded love. Gone was the woman who had tried to hold herself to higher standards, and who played by the rules, even if she didn’t understand them. This potent kiss, that exquisite pleasure, made her forget herself, but it couldn’t just change everything.