A trained guard dog attacked by a hissing kitten. That’s the comparison that came to mind—and he was definitely the dog. A dog for baiting her so—but what had he done?
Frost was at a loss. Her sudden change in demeanor, the panic she couldn’t hide…what precipitated it?
The idea that he was the direct cause seemed inconceivable given how well they meshed and talked upon any number of subjects—more freely than he’d ever conversed with any female. But something he’d done had struck a chord within her, hitting a very sour note indeed.
He infused a carefree note into his voice as he unhurriedly approached her. “My berries, not to mention my lips and hands, feel significant sorrow at the thought of causing you grief and I will certainly keep all three to myself henceforth.”
“Lord Frostwood, no! I did not mean it…not any of it.” She ducked her head and he took it as a sign.
He touched the back of one restless hand, which she quickly flipped to grasp his.
“Tell me?” he dared softly, stroking his thumb across several fingers.
“My father…” She looked up and gave a watery smile. “I’m not permitted to dance, you see.”
And oh, how much he did.
“Not allowed to venture outside much beyond the enclosed garden or…or… Well, any manner of things.”
Without her expounding further he could imagine. The idea of this spirited, vibrant woman locked away baffled him completely. Moving at a slumbering snail’s pace, he lifted her hand to his lips, lingered there a moment. “That’s two berries now.”
“As if I’m expected to maintain an accounting when your bachelor’s fare makes me all totty-headed!”
At that rejoinder, he reached into his pocket and withdrew everything he could coil his fingers around. “Here. Take the lot of them.”
He thrust several berries into her hand, most of which dropped to the floor before she could capture them because he captured her lips in a violent kiss. He could do no less at the admission his touch affected her as hers did him.
Attempting to kiss away the fear he’d just witnessed, Frost used his lips and tongue to speak for him, plying her with every ounce of comfort he could even as he availed himself of every ounce of passion she was willing to relinquish. Rash perhaps, kissing one such as her as he would a paid doxy—not that Frost ever dallied with doxies; maintaining a past mistress or two had always sufficed—but nothing sufficed now except possessing her lips. Almost brutally, despite how he tried to show restraint, but wishing he could banish every dilemma this delightful woman had ever faced and ever would.
When she moaned in her throat, Frost started to pull back. But no, she only angled her head, exposing her neck, and murmured, “Here too?”
And he was lost. His mouth eagerly swooped toward the delicate skin she offered and his hands slipped past her shoulders to her spine and down…down…
Until he was molding the firm halves of her bum, kneading the supple flesh with his fingers while his tongue delved toward the sensitive spot at the side of her jaw, beneath one ear.
“Tell me to stop.” His words were ragged.
She remained silent and his hands slid over the mounds of her arse, his debauched fingers aching to tug her long dress up and out of the way so they could touch bare skin, could feel the heat he already sensed emanating from between her clenched thighs. The heat that beckoned him onward as nothing in his life ever had.
“By God, Issybelle, tell me to stop!” This time it was a prayer, one uttered with every bit of passion he felt.
But he kept on kissing her, his lips unerringly finding hers when she only whimpered, “Never.”
He dug his nails into her petticoat-and-skirt-protected arse to keep from doing anything more that he shouldn’t and begged against her mouth, “I… I… I need you…” to tell me to stop, dammit, “God, how I need you, Issybel—”
The touch of her tongue halted his rambling plea.
The flesh beneath his fingers tensed and lifted as she came up on her toes and coiled her arms around his neck. Her tongue skimmed tentatively over his lips and then inside his mouth. He heard her breath catch. But maybe that was his because as she rubbed her tongue along his, she tightened her arms, bringing their chests into contact.
The swell of her breasts branded him.
His fingers flexed again on their delightful handfuls and he sucked harder than he meant to on her tongue, all in an effort to keep from raising those skirts, from ripping that modest neckline down, and from plunging his tongue and his body where neither had any right to be.
Not now. Not when he’d yet to state his intentions. Or decide precisely what they were.