She licked her lips nervously. “Like a chestnut.”
“The color’s the same.” He reached up to gently trace the arch of one eyebrow with his thumb. “I thought of your eyes, dark and rich—”
“Chocolate.”
“Chocolate,” he agreed. “—while I was undressing in my room, the night we agreed to a truce.”
Her brain snagged on one comment. “While you were undressing?”
“Yes. I think of you at the damndest times…your skin, your lips, and the beauty mark just above them.” His hand moved to cup the back of her neck. “This tender spot just below your ear.”
“You do?”
“Mm-hm.” He pulled her closer, and closer still, until he spoke against her lips and she felt the heat of it down to her toes. “And I think of this, nearly every waking moment of the day.”
He kissed her then. Not with the softness he’d shown in the past and not with the wildness she’d experienced the night of the ball, but with a fierce determination that frightened and excited her.
His mouth moved strongly over hers, demanding she give, and yield, and take. Until she could do nothing but obey. His hands moved to stroke possessively—down her arms, up her back and down again. She felt the warmth in the wake of every touch.
He caught her around under the knees and hauled her into his arms. The sudden move made her gasp, as did the the feel of his arousal pressing against her hip when he settled on the edge of the bed with her in his lap. He nipped at her ear and snuck a hand under her skirt to stroke her calf.
“Whit, I—”
“Shh.” He pressed his lips to the side of her neck just below her ear. He’d been right, she thought with a ragged breath, it was tender there.
He moved down toward her shoulder, pressing kisses along the way. Aroused, and uncertain what to do with that feeling, she struggled against him. “Whit—”
“Shh. Let me, Mirabelle,” he whispered, and she felt a shudder tear through her at the sensation of his hot breath against her skin. “Just for a moment. I’ll stop when you ask. I promise.”
Stop? Why the devil would she want him to stop? She’d only wanted to say something nice, something sweet and poetic as he had. She only wanted to get closer, damn it.
Frustrated, she reached up to tangle her hands in his hair and brought his roving mouth back to hers. She kissed him with all the determination and possessiveness he’d shown that night, all the desperation they’d felt in the carriage, and all the restless desire she felt now.
She kissed him with all her heart and the deepest wish that he could see inside it.
A growl worked in his throat. And the next thing she knew, she was lying down, his weight pressing her firmly into the mattress.
“I’ll stop,” he whispered again, even as his hands worked under her to undo the buttons of her gown. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”
She tugged his coat down his shoulders in response.
They pulled and yanked, tearing at clothes in a frenzied rush to find the skin underneath. He caught her hand as she reached for his buttons of his breeches.
“Not yet, Mirabelle. Not yet.”
She gaped at her hand in his. Had she really just tried to do that? Was she supposed to do that? She swallowed hard and met his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” he whispered gently. “Let me show you.”
She dipped her head in a nod, then closed her eyes on a sigh as he bent his head to press kisses along her collarbone, careful to be gentle where the skin was still tender from her fall. “No thinking, Mirabelle. Just feel.”
“Yes.” She sighed again. “Oh, yes.”
That sound, that incredible sound of a woman yielding, nearly drove Whit over the edge. He struggled in his need to be gentle, and in his need to ravish. He’d never wanted like this. Not even when he’d been a green boy, panting after everything in skirts, had he ached so painfully for a woman. If she’d touched him, if he’d let her fingers continue on their quest to free him, he wouldn’t have lasted.
He lifted his head to watch her for a moment while his hand brushed down to mold a breast. He’d managed to pull her dress off—all the while thinking that when they were married, he was going to order her an entire wardrobe of gowns with oversized button holes—and now he reveled in the soft skin her thin chemise left exposed.
He brushed a thumb across a nipple and watched as it peaked through the material. Her answering moan shot a shiver of lust through his system. His fingers glided along the neck of the chemise, gently pulling it back to expose her.
“It’s…it’s not the blue chemise,” she whispered with a hint of apology.
“It’s perfect,” he heard himself tell her in a voice gone hoarse. “You’re perfect.”
If she responded, he didn’t hear her. With his own blood roaring in his head, he gathered the material at the hem and bunched it up to pull it over her head before laying her back down again.