“Viola,” he whispered against her neck, his low voice vibrating in her ear. “You taste so sweet.”
Her mind wanted to impose some kind of order on this moment but there was only delicious sensation like the first bite of a profiterole, piercing the thin skin of the dough to uncover the sweet cream beneath and sinking your teeth through it and the sweetness melting on your tongue.
Or the ringing of a bell quavering in the air and you wanted to hold on to it but it faded away.
She would savor this moment, store the memory for later, when she was old and gray.
She mustn’t think that she was special, or that the kiss meant anything to him. He kissed herbecause he was Wicked Westbury and that’s what he did with willing partners.
And she kissed him because it was what she’d wanted to do since the very first moment she’d laid eyes on him.
She’d kissed him before many times in her dreams. He’d come to her room at night, professed his love, and she’d allowed him a few liberties, a few measured favors, a kiss, a touch. Nothing like this wildfire of sensation, his hands roaming to her breasts, shaping her nipples.
Her imaginings had been truncated by inexperience. She’d touched herself, the secret wellspring of pleasure she’d discovered, and brought herself to crisis imagining him kissing her.
She’d imagined so many impossible things.
In her dreams she’d been the perfect duchess candidate: high-born, elegant, a society darling, with an enormous fortune. And why stop there? She’d dreamed of a society wedding.
A trousseau of silky undergarments.
A wedding night.
She’d seen love shining in his eyes. He’d whispered promises to adore her forever.
The real West made no promises. He didn’t speak at all. He kissed her and he explored her with a breathtaking mastery.
It was only a kiss. It meant nothing to him, her mind argued, and so therefore it should mean nothing to her—it should be a passing fancy, a natural urge, a primal quest for union.
But it did mean something. It meant...everything.
She’d forever be changed by this moment.She’d been never-been-kissed Viola and now she was Viola, a bell awakened, ringing a clarion call.
There was some line that mustn’t be crossed. What was it?
All of it.All of it was forbidden.
She was far from the perfect duchess candidate. And she certainly wouldn’t become his mistress.
She’d have her heart broken if she allowed herself to be seduced by him. To love him.
Just one more kiss, she promised herself.Then I’ll end this.
She was melting sugar in his arms. She kissed the way she played the piano—those afternoons he’d snuck downstairs to listen outside the music room door—with a light, sure, nimble touch that teased artistry into blossom.
He’d known she’d make those soft little moans of pleasure in the back of her throat. She couldn’t help herself. She always accompanied everything with music. She hummed and tapped her fingers on her thighs... even the way she walked was musical, a rolling melody of womanly hips swaying.
Her body was made for sin, so tiny and small-boned but with those generous curves that he wanted so badly to explore. Her lips felt like satin against his lips, and when he delved inside her mouth with his tongue she tasted like boiled sweets and brandy.
The innocent scent of lavender clung to her hair and her neck. She still wore her ball gown, which was modest, but far lower cut than her usual garb.The tops of her breasts plumped against his chest as he held her tightly, kissing her deeply.
His arousal was instant and impressively eager, twitching against his trousers, seeking a way to feel all that warm, sensual woman in a more intimate way.
He’d been thinking about doing this for days, weeks... possibly his whole life.
This woman in his arms, opening for him, winding her hands around his neck. It all felt so familiar... and yet completely different. Somehowmore.
More desirable. More seductive.