Page 45 of Winter's Waltz
“The bleeding has stopped, I believe. The wound does not appear terribly deep. Fingers, it would seem, are like noses. A great deal of blood initially.”
Relief washed over her, along with guilt as she thought of the day she had punched him in the nose. How could she have known just how thoroughly everything between them would change?
“Then we can commence with the night’s entertainment. I hadn’t expected you this early,” she confessed.
In truth, she had not known what to expect at all. The Marquess of Sundenbury was her first assignation.
“I was eager.”
His quiet admission stole her attention back. But she did not look at her thumb. Nor at the square of linen she assumed to be marred with the red of her blood. Instead, she looked at his beautiful face.
“As was I,” she admitted.
“But after you have wounded yourself, I would not—”
“Max,” she interrupted, not wishing to hear the rest of his words.
He raised a brow. “Gen?”
“Kiss me.”
He grinned. “With pleasure.”
She had a fleeting impression of his dimples and knew a quickening in her heart before his mouth found hers.
* * *
Max warnedhimself to be gentle. To give as much as he took. She was an innocent, and she had been through a hell the likes of which he could not fathom. Little wonder she had built a fortress around herself. Desperation had struck him, along with fear, when he had opened the door to find her bleeding and pale. With the attacks on Lady Fortune, he had initially been terrified someone had been hiding in her apartments and gone after her. But then he had taken note of the penknife and quills, and the truth had been apparent.
His heart had been pounding ever since his entry at finding her pale and unlike herself. Now, it was pounding for a different reason entirely. Her vulnerability had rendered her even more tempting—the knowledge she trusted him with this dark, painful secret made him feel as if he were the most powerful man in London.
And as his lips moved over hers, all his good intentions fled. The gentleman within disappeared. The fires of need licked into roaring, raging flames, and he was powerless to do anything other than surrender to them.
Toher.
He kissed Gen softly, deeply, taking his time to torture them. She clutched at his shoulders, offering herself up to him completely. He was going to take everything she had to give. Because everything about Genevieve Winter felt inherently right. Felt as if she were his. As if she always had been, but he had been traveling through life, waiting for the moment when all would weld together and make sense in the form of this brash, beautiful woman.
This night would not be enough. He knew instinctively that no amount of nights would. He wanted more from her than the fortnight she had promised. He was greedy when it came to her.
So greedy, he slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting her. She was sweet like honey yet infinitely more delicious. And she sucked on his tongue with abandon, making the most decadent sound of frustrated pleasure in her throat. That mewl coiled around him, settled deep. Her scent, like a garden bursting into vibrant blossom, left him drunk with passion. His every sense was sharp and painfully aware.
He dared to caress her, learning her curves and lines with his hands, the fabric of her masculine garb keeping him from the prize he sought—all that silken, feminine flesh. He started at her waist, and then he traveled up her back. She was so delicate beneath her jacket, so much more fragile than she seemed, and he felt like this was a side of her only he was privileged to see and know.
The brash, bold, fearless Genevieve Winter.
His.
He tore his mouth from hers, kissing along her jaw, down her throat to where her linen cravat kept him from her skin. Kissed his way to her ear, traced the shell with his lips, absorbed her shiver.
“I want to bring you so much pleasure, you forget how to think,” he told her softly. “I want to taste you everywhere.”
“You’re a rogue, Marquess.” Her voice was husky, with a rare undercurrent of teasing.
“Max,” he reminded her. “No formality. No boundaries. Nothing between us tonight.”
Which reminded him. Too many layers were in the way. He nibbled on the part of her throat available to him as his fingers freed the buttons on her coat from their moorings. She swallowed hard as he slid his hands inside, over her waistcoat; he felt the sudden movement in her neck, the racing of her pulse.
“Max,” she whispered, her hands were moving, too. “I want your coat off.”
