He allowed himself the dangerous luxury of letting it build.
He could enjoy the feel of her small fingers gripping his shouders and feathering across the back of his neck. He could savor the way she fit against him, her face turned up to his, her breasts pressed against his chest. He could relish the lines of her, and mold his hands along the subtle hips and long waist. He could take his fill of her warm mouth, her fragile skin, her soft sighs.
He had control.
He did.
Until his fingers skimmed along the low back of her dress and, dipping between her gown and shoulder blade, discovered satin.
Smooth, and warmed by the heat of her flesh, the feel of it was unmistakable.
“Whit?”
Mirabelle’s breathless voice, sounding uncertain, made him realize he’d gone absolutely still.
“You’re wearing it,” he whispered.
She blinked at him blurriedly. “Wearing…wearing what?”
By way of answer, he trailed his finger along the neckline of her gown, over her uninjured shoulder and down her collarbone to rest on the swell of her breast. Slowly, as if unwrapping a rare present, he peeled the gown away to expose the soft blue beneath.
“The blue satin.”
Had he been watching her face, he’d have noticed her eyes clear.
“You saw,” she breathed, and took a step back.
Oh, he’d seen. But not enough. He took a step forward.
“Not nearly enough.”
Her eyes went from clear to wide, and she retreated another two steps.
He advanced. Then advanced again, beginning a leisurely stalk of her across the room.
She stumbled back against a chair. Gentleman that he was, he simply leaned around her to pull it out of the way.
“I believe you were running?”
“I’m not running,” she retorted. And made a quick dart to the left.
Grinning wolfishly, he snagged her around the waist and dragged her against him, then marched her backwards until he had her trapped against the wall. He leaned in, pinning her with his weight.
“What is it, Mirabelle? A chemise?” He traced the material at her breast with the pad of his thumb. The hand he’d braced against the wall fisted when she shivered. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I—” She broke off with a ragged breath as he drew his hand down, brushing the side of her breast, outlining her waist.
An entire garment of flowing blue satin, he thought. And underneath it all was the imp. His hand tightened reflexively on her hip.
His imp.
He caught her eyes now. He made certain of it.
“Mine.”
Mirabelle had only a chance to wonder at that statement before Whit’s mouth was once again on hers. But this time, the kiss wasn’t light and sweet. It was dark, and heady, and dangerous.
And she reveled in it—in the rough caress of his hands, the possessive sweep of his tongue.
She ought to push him away, she thought dimly. Or at least stop pulling him closer. She certainly shouldn’t be letting him unbutton her gown. But as quickly as those thoughts would occur to her, they would be lost again, washed away in the heat.
It felt so wonderful, so wonderfully right, to have his hands against her skin, his mouth trailing hot kisses down her neck. Sliding a palm up her calf, he caught the back of her knee and hiked her higher against the wall. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed forcefully at the juncture of her legs, and suddenly it no longer felt merely right to touch and be touched, it felt absolutely necessary.
She lost herself in the frantic desire of the moment. As if from a distance, she heard her own gasps and moans.
And Whit’s own ragged cursing.
“Enough,” he rasped, easing back and letting her slowly slide to the floor. “Enough. I have control.”
Control? What the devil was he talking about? She struggled to get closer, to bring him back. She wanted…she wanted…she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted. But she was damn well certain it wasn’t his control.
“Easy.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let things go so far.”
He held her close, petting and stroking in a manner that soothed rather than aroused.
“Better?” he asked after a time.
No, she thought, a little sourly. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
No need to add desperation to the list of her sins.
He nodded once, brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek, and stepped away. “We’ve been in here too long. Go to the ballroom. I’ll follow after—” He broke off and took a thorough study of her appearance. “On second thought, go to your room first. You’re a bit…mussed.”
She raised an unsteady hand to her hair, found it almost completely undone
“Here, turn around,” he suggested.
“What?”
“Your buttons,” he explained, and took her shoulders to turn her about. He did up the back of her gown with the rapid efficiency of a man determined not to think too hard on where his hands were.
“There.” He turned her about again. “I can’t do much about the rest, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. That’s all right.” She stared at him blankly for a moment.