The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Honor smiled at him like a woman who knew she was in control and on the verge of carnal pleasure, and the effect on him was maddeningly strong. It sent a quake of desire rumbling through him. He allowed himself a moment to take in her fine figure, the swell of her bosom, the inky dark hair that smelled of roses.

He touched her collarbone with the back of his hand. “If you were mine, I would remove every stitch of clothing and kiss every inch of your skin, Cabot,” he said, his voice rough with need. He dipped his hand into her cleavage, traced a line up to her neck again. “I would make myself mad thinking of all the ways I might have you.”

She sucked in her breath and held it; her lashes fluttered.

“I would use my hands,” he said, cupping her between her legs. “My mouth,” he muttered, brushing his lips across her temple, “and my cock.” He pressed his erection against her abdomen and could feel the shiver of anticipation course through her body.

“But you’re not mine,” he muttered, and began to trace a line from her chin, down her neck, between her bosoms, and to her groin. “I must then improvise.” He began to gather her skirts.

Honor glanced anxiously at the balcony door.

“Does the threat of discovery excite you?” he asked, slipping his hand beneath her gown and between her legs.

Her answer was swallowed by a soft gasp at the sensation of his fingers sliding deeper into the slit of her body, twirling suggestively around the hardened nub.

Honor splayed her hands against the wall at her back as if she were trying to hold herself up. Her head dropped against his shoulder as he moved inside her, and her breathing began to grow ragged.

But for George, it was not enough. It could never be enough. He suddenly withdrew his hand. Honor’s lips parted with surprise, and she opened her eyes. “We’ll not go as quickly this evening,” he said, and took her leg in his hand, lifting it to prop her foot against the railing.

“Easton!” she whispered hotly as she glanced frantically at the door.

He peeled one of her hands from the wall and stuffed the voluminous skirts into it. “Hold it,” he commanded her, kissed her with all the desire that was building to a fevered pitch in him, then slid down her body, his hands following, raking across her breasts and waist, until he was on one knee and his hands had settled on her hips.

He could smell her potent desire, could feel the dampness between her legs. Above him, Honor was gasping for air. George couldn’t contain himself; he dipped in between the curls and the folds of skin, his tongue sliding into the valley. Honor gasped again and clutched at his head and hair.

George flicked his tongue against her again, gripped her hips, and began to lick her, dipping deep into her slit, exploring her, teasing her at the core of her desire then sliding down the slick pathway again, to where he could feel her throbbing for him against his tongue. Her moans of pleasure were incredibly arousing—he would not have thought himself capable of restraint, but he felt an intrinsic need to pleasure her, to give her this. The stroke of his tongue turned harder until he covered her completely with his mouth, sucking her as she moved against him, pressing against his tongue, seeking her fulfillment. He slipped his hand between her legs, used his fingers and his mouth to carry her over the edge.

When she came, she fell over his head, her arms around his neck.

George was breathing as hard as Honor. Harder. His breath was full of pent-up desire, of the physical toil of his restraint. He kissed her belly, then lowered her skirts and stood up, dragging her up with him.

Honor was spent, her body limp as she sought her breath. She slowly straightened, brushed her hand against her hair—one thick strand had come undone from the neat little arrangement at the back of her head. She tucked it in and lifted her gaze to George. “You have destroyed me.”

He shook his head and casually removed a handkerchief and wiped his hand and returned it to his pocket. “I have opened the door to a different sort of freedom,” he said, and brushed her face with the back of his hand. He thought he should speak, but the taste of her was still on his lips, and he couldn’t find the appropriate thing to say. I adore you. I need you. I can’t possibly have you.

Honor rose up on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. She slid down again, removed his coat from her shoulders and said, “I don’t know what to do with you, George Easton.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.”

“I should go,” she said, but her gaze was searching his face, as if she weren’t certain what she should do.

George’s body answered for them both. He could not stand on this viewing balcony with the taste of her on his mouth, her pleasure still thrumming in his trousers. “You should,” he said, and ran his thumb across her lip. “Go now, little lamb, before I devour you.” He leaned down, kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Go,” he said, more urgently. His high steps were faltering. He was off course. He needed a moment, several moments, to find his pace again.

“George—”