The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“What if?” he said, his mouth on her neck, her shoulders, his hands on her waist, her hips.

Honor heard the sound of someone approaching and caught her breath, digging her fingers into his arms. Easton stilled. They waited, her breath about to explode from her chest, until the person had walked by. When they did, George looked at her. She felt something very odd, like a whisper of silk across her chest. His eyes were darker, swimming with...with affection. Affection! She knew it was so because she felt it, too, a shock through her heart. She hadn’t felt anything like it in so long, and certainly never as ardently—Rowley suddenly seemed like a puppy compared to this wolf.

Honor surged forward and up on her toes, her mouth landing on his.

George lifted her off her feet and twirled around, put her up against the stone wall behind the chain mail, trapping her there with his body. He put his arm around her, anchored her tightly to him and kissed her, his tongue in her mouth, teasing hers, his lips on her cheek, her neck, against her lips. With his free hand, he stroked the skin of her décolletage, his fingers sliding into her gown, brushing against the rigid nipple and sending violent waves of desire through her.

Honor’s breath began to evaporate—she couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe. She sought him with her hands, sliding down his arms and around his waist, up his chest again to his face, her fingers carelessly sliding in between their mouths, down his hard chest and boldly over the ridge of his erection. She caught her breath at the feel of it—so hard. Her body was responding, getting damper, softer somehow.

George reached for the hem of her gown, gathering it in folds until he could find her leg. His hand slid up past her stocking to the bare skin of her thigh, leaving a burning trail wherever he touched. Honor feared herself in danger of being swept under by the tide of hunger building in her, of rolling and tumbling along helplessly as it rushed through her, and still, she did not care.

How had he fanned so much desire in her? How had she come to esteem him so completely? He had seduced her thoroughly. “You are a scoundrel,” she said lowly, and splayed her hands against the wall at her back. “I could scream,” she said breathlessly into his ear.

“Then do it,” he challenged her. “Scream. And still you will not scream as you will when I make love to you.”

“Libertine,” she breathed, and propped her foot against the stone spindles of the railing so that his hand could reach the damp warmth between her legs. She gasped at the sensation when his fingers closed around the core of her pleasure, then slid deep inside her.

“Lover,” he whispered into her ear.

Honor closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. “I’m mad,” she whispered. “Mad, mad....”

“Enjoy it, lass,” he said, and kissed her mouth, the hollow of her throat and, moving down, put his lips on the skin of her bosom as he began to stroke her, his fingers swirling around the slick folds, sliding in and out of her, stroking the hard core.

With some primal rhythm pulsing through her, Honor began to ride his hand, pressing harder against his fingers, seeking release. She gripped him as he increased the intensity of his strokes, swirling, dipping, rubbing against her slick sex. She could hear voices, the laughter of people below, the whispers of other people on the balcony. It only served to heighten her experience, to realize in that moment how overpowering desire could be. She didn’t care if she was discovered. As her body tensed, coiling, preparing for release, she suddenly pitched forward, put her mouth against his shoulder and cried out against the wool of his coat with delirious pleasure as she shuddered around his hand.

They were both gasping when he withdrew his hand and dropped her skirts. She managed to lift her head and opened her eyes. She couldn’t look away from George Easton, couldn’t push back and put some distance between them as she did when gentlemen drew too close. She tried to think of something to say, but no words came to her. She felt breathless, weightless, and strangely erotic emotions swirled in her.

His hand slid down her arm, his fingers tangled with hers. He kissed her temple and said softly, “There you are, Cabot, a taste of your own medicine. And now the evening has come to its regrettable end.”

“What?” Honor tried to hide her fluster, but it was useless. She had stepped beyond an invisible curtain and could not hear very well.

He dipped his head to look her in the eye. “In spite of our disagreement about the effectiveness of your absurd ideas, the pleasure has truly been all mine.”

Honor couldn’t look away from him. She was stunned by what had happened, stunned by what he’d just done to her. “Will you come to Longmeadow?” she asked, far too anxiously.

“No.”

She nodded as if she accepted that, but then grabbed his fingers more tightly and said incongruently, “Please.”