Page 32 of What a Lord Wants

Not moving as he sat sprawled on the longue, he silently returned her gaze and let her look at how deliciously disheveled he was, with his opened waistcoat and shirt revealing his chest, his hair mussed from her fingers, and his manhood shamelessly bulging against his trousers.

A feminine craving stirred unbidden between her legs. It took all the resolve she could muster not to crawl back on top of him.

Outside, the bell of the parish church broke through the gray day and slowly tolled the hour. Four, five…

Her hand flew to her mouth, which was still hot and wet from his kisses.Tonight’s ball.Heavens, she’d completely forgotten!

“Oh no—I’m late!”

Panicked, her fear of Mariah’s wrath greater than her desire to keep kissing him—for now—she raced behind the screen and yanked on her dress, not taking the time to properly button it before pulling on her coat. Her hair tangled, and her shaking fingers weren’t helping to straighten it.

Neither was Dom as he called out to her, alarmed at her behavior.

“I’m late,” she repeated, jumping on one foot out from behind the screen as she slipped on her shoes.

Mariah was going to kill her! Then breathe life into her and kill her again if her sister discovered where she’d been and what she’d been doing during the past few weeks.

She rushed past him toward the door, her hands fumbling as she buttoned up her coat, all the way to her neck to hide her unkempt clothes beneath.

“Eve?” He followed after her, concern thick in his voice.

“I should have been home an hour ago.”

That was the only explanation she could give, and all she had time for. Except—

She halted in the middle of the wicket, half-in and half-out, to look back at him. Her breath came fast, and the warm blood that coursed through her gave her courage.

“When we’re done with the painting, when I’m no longer your model,” she rushed out breathlessly, “I want you to kiss me again.”Say yes, oh dear God, please say yes!“Will you?”

He hesitated in somber indecision. Then he rasped out, as if agreeing cost him a great deal, “When you’re no longer connected to my art.”

With delight pulsing through her, she was gone, running down the alley as fast as she could.

Chapter 8

An hour later, Dom stared at the half-finished painting of Eve. He could still taste the sweet flavor of her on his lips.

Good God. What insanity had overcome him to make him kiss her like that?

Worse, he hadn’t wanted to stop. He’d wanted that small taste of her that he’d gained from her kisses, so he’d let himself have it. But he’d also wanted everything else that she’d so unashamedly offered. It had taken all his restraint not to do exactly as she asked, untie the corset, and peel it away.

He glanced up as the wicket door opened, his heartbeat spiking hopefully. “Eve?”

Instead, his man Davies stepped inside, with two boxes in his arms and a bundle of clothes wrapped in a sheet over his shoulder. And a scowl on his face.

“This would not be necessary, Your Lordship,” his valet scolded as he juggled everything in his arms and attempted to shut the door with his foot, “if you came home on time to dress.”

“Apologies, Davies.” With a prick of remorse, he came forward to take the boxes from his valet’s hands. His painting was complicating more than just his own life. But that would all stop soon. “I couldn’t get away.”

The man slid a dubious glance at Eve’s mostly naked likeness, then gave a softhumphand hurried past him and up the stairs without comment.

Dom followed behind, amusement twitching at his lips. Only Davies could get away with speaking to a marquess like that, and then only because of how much Dom needed the man. Not only could he be trusted to keep his silence, he also knew how to hide whatever signs Dom wore on his body of being an artist, right down to minimizing the scent of linseed oil. For all of that, the man had earned the right of leeway.

“Next time I’ll cancel the invitation, and you can send my regrets.” Dom set the boxes onto a chair while Davies laid the bundle of clothes across the bed and unwrapped them to reveal the evening finery that he’d selected. “Better for both of us then.”

“Not when the contessa is involved.” Davies grimaced, although Dom couldn’t tell if he’d done it at the mention of Sabrina Ribaldi, young widow of the Conte di Monteriggioni whom he’d agreed to escort tonight, or the slightly wrinkled condition of the white satin waistcoat that he’d carried all the way from Mercer House. “God help the man who crossesthatone.”

“The contessa isn’t at all as fearsome as people believe.” But she was one of the most beautiful women in Europe, and one of the most insatiable.