Page 38 of Winter's Waltz
So much work to be done, and yet, all she wanted to do was sit in this man’s lap and kiss him breathless. He had brought her honey cakes and kissed her knuckles and told her she was beautiful. Likely the actions of a practiced rake. She had not allowed a man past her defenses so thoroughly. Not since Gregory.
This was a mistake. Stupid. Reckless. Foolish.
But somehow, none of that mattered. All that did matter was the marquess. Max. He was nothing as she had supposed he would be. She had not expected teasing grins and dimples and wicked kisses that left her feeling as if her mind were made of pudding.
He groaned into their kiss when she sought more of the friction between their bodies, her cunny riding his cock in such a way that had her feeling as if she would explode like fireworks. She wanted more of that. More of him. More of everything.
He tore his lips from hers, his breathing harsh. “What do you think of that trouble?”
“Stop talking,” she bit out, and then she pulled his mouth back to hers.
Their kisses were long and deep. He nipped her lower lip. She returned the favor and he groaned. Their tongues danced. His hands traveled from her bottom to the buttons on her waistcoat, undoing them before he pulled the tails of her shirt from her trousers. And then they were beneath, his knowing fingers working over the bare skin of her stomach. Higher. He cupped her breasts, which she had not bothered to bind that morning, his thumbs rubbing over the straining peaks.
She hummed her approval. His touch was warm and possessive and just…right. They kissed as if the world around them would cease to exist if they stopped. For all she knew, it would. His caresses were exquisite torture. The ache deep within blossomed and spread, twining with desperation.
She had never given herself to a man before, but the realization was there, strong and undeniable, that she wanted to give herself to this one. She shivered at the knowledge and he broke the kiss.
“Are my hands cold?”
“No,” she said quickly, fearing he would retreat and not wanting him to, for the moment he stepped away and this madness ended, she would have to resurrect her walls.
This was temporary.
Was it not?
Suddenly, Gen was not sure she wanted it to be.
He drew lazy, tantalizing circles over her nipples. “You are not wearing your binding.”
“No.” And she was grateful for the omission.
Anything between his hands and her skin seemed a sin of the greatest order.
“It was a dreadful shame, keeping this glory hidden away,” he murmured, his lips still in devastating proximity. “But I will admit to a certain selfish satisfaction that you did.”
He continued his light massages and teasing, dashing her thoughts to bits. “Satisfaction?”
“I want it to be mine.”
His.
The words, the notion, should not have affected her so strongly. A flare of heat in her belly, an aching awareness sparking through the rest of her with the burst of a flash of lightning.
“I do not belong to anyone.”
“I don’t want to own you, empress.” His dark eyes seared hers, reaching deep, finding a need she had not known existed until him. “I want your secrets, the parts of yourself you keep sacred. I want to be the only man who touches you. I want your kisses, your sighs, and your pleasure. I want it all for myself.”
How was she to resist?
What if she allowed herself to answer this siren’s song? To give herself to him? To accept all the pleasure he offered?
“Yes.” Her acquiescence fell from her lips.
“Yes?” He sounded and looked as dazed as she felt.
Was this her, Genevieve Winter, telling a lord, honorific or no, he could have his way with her? Telling the ne’er-do-well duke’s heir that he could bed her and have his way with her? That she would give him everything she could give?
She could change her mind now. Tell him his kisses had left her mind hopelessly clouded. It would not be a lie. But there was another truth simmering to the surface, undeniable.
