Did he want her?
As his mouth swooped toward hers, she knew. Preposterous as it seemed, he wanted her. And nothing could have surprised her more.
~~*
CHAPTER NINE
“A lady judges a man’s worth on both his appearance and his behavior. Signs of gentlemanly character may be subtle, but they form the foundation of her good opinion. I recommend employing the following: A temperate demeanor. An excellent tailor. And a cravat, Mr. Kilbrenner. A cravat would not go amiss.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter addressing strategies to improve one’s gentlemanly allure.
Seconds after his lips touched hers, he knew two things: She’d never been kissed, and he would never get enough of her.
The first realization came when a wide, tempting mouth that thought it knew everything slid against his with awkward pursing and eager ineptitude. She moaned and fisted his coat, ground his lips into his teeth, and generally felt her way with more enthusiasm than grace.
The second realization came when a kiss intended strictly to prove a point—never mind that his cock had been hard enough to crack marble—sent his head spinning like a bottle of his best brandy.
Despite her amateurish response.
Despite his qualms about compromising a spinster’s reputation.
Despite the foolishness of giving in to his lust.
He wanted to claim her. Hard and deep and forever.
Instead, he made do with her sweet, wide, virginal mouth. Gripping her nape firmly, he caressed her jaw with his thumb and forced her harder into his hips. “Open for me,” he growled.
“Why?” she panted.
“Just do it.”
She did.
He dove deep with his tongue, ignoring her squeak of alarm. Ah, God. She was intoxicating, her slick, soft tongue fluttering experimentally then stroking against his. Her hips writhed and her hands clutched. Circled his neck. Pulled her body higher. She pushed and rubbed lush breasts into him so desperately he could feel her nipples like little diamonds, even through layers of clothing.
Head swimming and chest heaving, he lifted her and turned, bracing her back against the wall beside the door. His hands, free now to explore, gripped her hips and grasped her thighs. Dug in and slid. Spread. Pulled her closer.
He ground his cock against her, sending quakes of pleasure radiating up his spine and out into every muscle.
Heat. So much heat and beauty. He was burning in relentless fire, awash in waves of it. He devoured her even as she devoured him. His cock set a rhythm, needing something like the sensation of thrusting inside her.
She would be tight.
He groaned into her mouth, pulsing his tongue in and out. In and out.
God, she would fight to take him inside. He knew it. Sensed it. Felt it in her restless hands and eager hips. She would not just accept his cock. She would claim it.
He’d never known anything like this. The fire was building. Gathering between them. Scalding wherever they touched.
Her skirts fought him. He pulled them higher. Hitched her up and dragged her down, eliciting a sobbing moan.
Her fingers dug into his scalp. Cradled his jaw and clawed at his neck and shoulders.
His hips worked harder, grinding against the core of her, where her sweet heat burned highest. He wanted a taste. He wanted to consume her.
He moved his mouth to her neck, kissing and suckling and feeding on her scent. Skin and water and arousal.
She responded in kind, laying frantic kisses against his cheek and temple—whatever she could reach. Moaning in the sweetest voice, dusky with her need, she was gasping for air, her hips now catching his rhythm and moving in time.
Like a dance with an ever-rising cadence.
“Oh. Oh, dear heaven. M-Mr. Reaver.”
“Bloody hell, woman,” he groaned. “Dispense with the mister.”
“Sebastian. I fear I might … Oh, my word. Please.”
He’d meant for her to call him Reaver. But he liked the sound of Sebastian on her lips. He liked her last word even better. Pleeeaaasse. Long and low as she used his cock for her pleasure.
Her pleasure. Her peak. It was coming. She was coming.
He’d never desired anything more ferociously.
“Mmmmm. Sebastian. Dear heaven.”
Aye. His name. He loved it. He loved her scent, hot and rich. He loved her skin, silken against his tongue. He loved her thighs, gripping him hard. And her sweet center dampening him through his trousers.
Heart pounding like a bloody drum, he pushed her higher until her body jerked in his arms and her sharp cry signaled her pinnacle.
He could feel her. Good God, he could feel the little shivering pulses against him, even through his trousers. He pulled back to watch.
And was stunned by her beauty. Head thrown back, eyes closed, cheeks flushed a blushing peach, she shook and panted and gripped his shoulders. All the while, she wore a beatific smile. A single tear had fallen over her cheek, glistening in the light from the window.
How had this woman gone so long without a man claiming her for his own?
He absorbed every detail—the wide, sensual lips. The gentle slope of her jaw. The long, white column of her neck.
Slowly, he plucked pins from her hair. Watched waves of wine and wood, fire and sunrise tumble down upon her shoulders. He lifted a curl to his nose and breathed deep. Felt as though he was falling into darkness with only her skin and scent and smile to keep him oriented.
Gray eyes opened, fluttering lazily. “Sebastian,” she whispered, holding him captive.
Her gloved hand stroked his cheek.
He wiped away the shimmering trail beneath her eye.
He wished he could say something. But words didn’t exist.
Kissing her again was the only answer. So, he did. Lowered her legs gently to the floor then threaded his hands through her hair and drew her mouth to his once more.
This time, her lips were pliant and responsive. She took his lead. Sighed sweetly and nibbled tenderly. He didn’t want to let her go.
But he had to. If he lingered much longer, he would take her. Already, his body demanded it with thrumming force.
He rested his forehead against hers and breathed her breath.
“You may call me Augusta, if—if you prefer.” Her voice was so soft and tentative, he scarcely recognized it.
“Augusta,” he uttered, savoring the word. “I like your hair.” He rubbed a lock of the silken stuff against his jaw.
“Oh!” She patted her head. “My pins.”
He released her and backed away slowly, determined not to take further liberties. From the look of her—cheeks flushed, hair loosened, lips swollen, eyes glazed—the liberties he’d taken had been shocking enough.
“I shall leave you here to …” He stopped. Stared. Good God, she was beautiful. Even in that shabby brown pelisse. Her pale skin glowed. Her russet hair fell in looping waves. One curl brushed her breast.