“Are you indeed?” Anna asked hotly. “Naught else?” she spat. “Not this?”
That was the moment she abruptly and rudely astonished him, threw him completely off kilter and sent him tumbling head over heels down a dangerous slope he had not seen until that moment.
She kissed him.
Mary Queen of Scots, but the wench lurched forward, pressing her lips to his in such a swift and violent manner that it toppled them both backward, so that she was lying partially atop him on the settee.
It was no sweet and chaste kiss meant merely as a flirtation, either. It was a kiss that was brimming with fire—unbridled, unfulfilled passion to which Grif could scarcely respond as her tongue was darting quickly into his mouth, her teeth grazing his lips as if she enjoyed some delicacy. And furthermore, he was keenly aware of her body on top of his, her breasts pressed firmly against his chest, the scent of her skin and hair, the sweet taste of her mouth, the succulent flesh of her tongue.
The sensation was so naked and pure that it poured like molten gold into his groin flaming sensations he had not felt more than once or twice in his entire life.
And then, just as surprisingly, she cried out against his mouth, pushed with both hands against his chest—he’d not even realized he’d let go of her—and rose above him, staring down at him, one side of her hair having come undone and drifting between them, disbelief filling her eyes as it must have filled his.
They stared at one another like that for a moment, a single moment in time that seemed, impossibly, more alive than all the moments he had ever lived put together. He saw the tears of fury welling in her eyes, and grabbed her head between his hands before they could fall, pulling her down to him again, returning her kiss with one as full of desire as he’d ever known.
Lord God, he was lost, lost in the feel of her body against his, the taste of her on his lips. They were wild; passion was flowing out of her and into him, and it seemed to Grif that she was trying to drink him in, much as he was trying to devour her. She moved, shifting, her hands running down his torso, then his arms.
They lost their precarious balance and fell as one off the settee, Grif grabbing her around the waist to stop her fall and bracing himself with his other arm so as not to crush her when they landed on the carpet.
Now she was beneath him, and her arms went round his neck, pulling herself up to him, feverishly devouring his lips as he was hers, in spite of the silken strand of hair that had somehow come between their lips. Grif eased them down onto the carpet, caressed her side, feeling the ribs of her corset beneath her gown, and moved higher, until his palm rested beneath the plump shapely globe that was her breast.
The moment he touched it, the moment he felt its weight in his hand, she panted into his mouth and suddenly arched her neck, let her head fall back to the carpet while her body rose up against him.
With frantic longing, Grif dropped his head to her bodice, mouthing the ripe mounds of flesh, burying his lips in the crevice between them, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender on her skin. He could feel her body swell and pulse beneath him, could feel himself spiraling down that golden path of desire, hard and throbbing with the hunger to be inside her.
And he might have found his way there, might have known that bliss had Anna not suddenly bucked beneath him, abruptly toppling him over onto his side.
She scrambled to her knees, looked down at him, wild-eyed. Her gown was twisted on her body, her hair a dark sweeping mess. “Sweet Jesus!” she whispered frantically, and dragged the back of her hand across her mouth before struggling to stand up.
Slowly, a wee bit stunned, Grif came up on his elbow as she shook out her skirts, tried to soothe the thick strands of hair that had tumbled loose from their coif.
“This is… this is insupportable,” she said quietly, in something of a daze.
“Insupportable?” he echoed as he tried to catch his breath. “I rather enjoyed it.”
She jerked a horrified look to him. “No, no! You mustn’t say that!”
“Why no’?” Grif asked, coming easily to his feet and straightening his own clothing—his trousers being the more difficult item as he had a terribly large erection. “Why should I deny that I enjoyed kissing ye?”
“Because—” She stopped there, her eyes going wide with fright—or perhaps awe, Grif hoped—at the sight of his erection pressing against his trousers. “Oh my God. Oh—it’s not proper!” she cried, whirling away from the sight of him and darting to the window. She took a deep breath, tried to adjust her sash. “Dear God, I’ve already pushed the bounds of propriety to come here at all! I’ve risked everything by doing it and now… now to have… kissed you like a strumpet—”