A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

“Isabel.”


He murmured the name against her mouth, sliding his hands down to her waist and pulling her close. When her br**sts met his chest, a little moan escaped them both. But this time, Toby offered her no gentleness, no chance to retreat. No, he had become a true man of purpose, pulling her tighter still and taking her mouth with a possessive hunger. His kiss tasted dark and desperate, and it was undeniably flattering, how much he seemed to want her. That no matter how much she offered him, he took more, and still more. His mouth moved again and again over hers, his tongue thrusting in and out as he clutched her waist with both hands. And then …

Oh, and then.

He began to slide one hand up. So slowly, so stealthily. His thumb lingered over each rib. With every inch his touch crept higher, Bel grew increasingly certain it would soon stop. It must stop.

But it didn’t stop, this insidious, tantalizing caress that traveled up and up. And within her some forbidden sensation, some need, began to mount as well. It was as if all her awareness converged in her belly, following the rippling heat of his touch. Her breath grew shallow, and her fingers tightened around his neck. Somewhere in her mind, a shrill voice clamored for virtue, but she couldn’t obey. The unbearable need climbed her from inside and out—his touch, this sensation—up and up … and up.

His thumb grazed the underside of her breast.

Oh. Oh, please.

Bel didn’t have the slightest idea what she was begging him for. But she was kissing him back now, arching her body and pouring that wordless plea into light motions of her lips and tentative sweeps of her tongue. He growled deep in his throat and rewarded her daring with another gentle caress up the side of her breast.

She clutched his neck tighter, kissed him harder. Telling him what she could never, ever bring herself to say in words.

Oh, please don’t stop. Please do it again.

Her br**sts ached. They were heavy, so heavy. She resented them, these useless, corsetstraining burdens she’d been carrying around since the age of fourteen. And now, at long last, they seemed awakened to some purpose. Her ni**les gathered to tight knots, straining against her bodice. Straining toward him. They hurt.

He could make it better. She knew he could.

Oh please. Oh please oh please oh please.

His hand cupped her breast. She nearly cried out with relief. His thumb found her nipple, and pleasure sang through her veins and curled between her thighs. So intense, she thought she might faint. With confident fingers, he stroked and kneaded, and Bel kissed him with every ounce of gratitude she possessed. They were heavy, so heavy—but now he had taken the weight in his own strong hand, bearing it for her. Soothing the ache. It was everything wrong. But it was everything she needed. She needed him, and he had come, armed with chocolate and kisses and that teasing, devilish grin.

He was temptation incarnate, and she was giving in.

At last.

At last.

Toby thumbed her hardened nipple again, groaning into her mouth. How long had he been aching to hold these magnificent br**sts? Since the evening they met—weeks now, months. An eternity. God, how marvelously she filled his hand, the warm, soft flesh overflowing his cupped fingers. Desire pounded in his blood. He longed to push her back into the upholstery, wrench her free of this thin muslin bodice, and fasten his lips around the taut bud of her nipple. She would taste so good. These mewling, erotic noises she now made into his mouth … she would make them aloud. Just the thought of it drove him into a frenzy. He’d missed her, more than he could have expected. The need gripped him, to join with her—

to carve out a home for himself in all that lush, generous femininity and never, ever leave. And though some fragment of reason in his melting brain insisted that there was no damned way he could deflower Isabel right here, right now, on her sitting room settee … a distinctly baser portion of him quite desperately wanted to try.

She was his, after all. She was marrying him in a matter of days, no matter what her brother said. The wedding must go on as planned. Those had been her words. The surge of triumphant pride only fueled his desire. He kneaded her breast greedily, relishing the way she arched into his touch, denying him nothing. Finally, she was responding to him—not his forbearance with beggars or his philanthropic largesse. At last, here was that passion he’d glimpsed at their very first meeting, all that pent-up emotion she buried under selfless good works. She might hide it from the world, even from herself. But she couldn’t hide it from him. He had won her. She was his.

She would be his wife.