His lips touched her ear. “I could kiss you again,” he repeated.
She gave a little nod. A tiny nod. But he felt it. “Again,” she whispered.
His teeth found her earlobe, gently nipping. “And again.”
“I think —”
“What do you think?” He smiled against her skin. He couldn’t quite believe how utterly delightful this was. He’d known kisses of passion, of raw, primal hunger and overwhelming lust. This was all that, but there was something more.
Something joyful.
“I think…” She swallowed. “I think you should kiss me again.” She looked up, her eyes remarkably clear. “And I think you should shut the door.”
George had never moved so fast in his life. He had half a mind to shove a chair under the door handle just to keep the damned thing closed.
“This still doesn’t mean nothing,” she said as his arms wrapped around her.
“Absolutely not.”
“But no consequences.”
“None.”
“You don’t have to marry me.”
“I don’t have to, no.”
But he could. The thought flicked across his mind with warm surprise. He could marry her. There was no reason why not.
His sanity, perhaps. But he had a feeling he’d lost that the first moment his lips had touched hers.
She stood on her tiptoes, tilting her face to his. “If you’re my first kiss,” she said, her lips curving with subtle mischief, “then you might as well be my second.”
“Maybe your third,” he said, capturing her mouth with his.
“It’s important to know,” she said, getting just those four words out between kisses.
“To know?” His mouth moved to her neck, causing her to arch provocatively in his arms.
She nodded, gasping as one of his hands moved along her rib cage. “How to kiss,” she clarified. “It’s a skill.”
He felt himself smile. “And you like to be skilled.”
“I do.”
He kissed her neck, then her collarbone, giving thanks to the current bodice styles, round and deep, baring creamy skin from her shoulders to the top swell of her breasts. “I predict great things for you.”
Her only response was a gasp of surprise. About what, he wasn’t quite sure – perhaps his tongue, flicking out along the sensitive skin peeking out from the lacy edge of her dress. Or maybe it was his teeth, nipping gently along the side of her neck.
He didn’t dare tumble her onto the chaise; he did not trust himself that far. But he did nudge her until she was leaning against the sofa, lifting her the scant few inches required to set her atop the back.
And God love her, but Billie knew instinctively what to do. Her legs parted, and when he rucked up her skirts, she wrapped herself around him. Maybe it was just for balance, but as he pressed himself against her, he didn’t care. Her skirt was still in the way, as were his breeches, but he felt her. He was hard, exquisitely so, and he pressed against her, his body knowing where it wanted to go. She was a country girl; she had to know what this meant, but she was lost in the same passion, and she pulled him closer, her legs tightening around his hips.
Dear God, at this rate he was going to spend himself like a green boy.
He took a breath. “It’s too much,” he gasped, forcing himself to pull away.
“No,” was all she said, but her hands moved to his head, allowing him to kiss her even as he put a little distance between their bodies.
And so he kissed her. He kissed her endlessly. He kissed her carefully, skirting the edge of his own desire, all too aware how close he was to the brink of reason.
And he kissed her tenderly, because this was Billie, and somehow he knew that no one ever thought to be tender with her.
“George,” she said.
He lifted his lips from hers, just a bit, just a breath. “Hmmm.”
“We have to… we have to stop.”
“Mmmm,” he agreed. But he didn’t stop. He could have done; he had a grip on his passion now. But he didn’t want to.
“George,” she said again. “I hear people.”
He drew back. Listened.
Swore.
“Open the door,” Billie hissed.
He did. With alacrity. Nothing sparked suspicion like a closed door. He looked at her. “You might…” He cleared his throat and made a motion near his head. “You might want to…”
He was no expert on ladies’ coiffures, but he was fairly certain her hair did not look as it should.
Billie blanched and frantically smoothed her hair, her nimble fingers tugging on pins and then jamming them back into place. “Better?”
He grimaced. There was a spot behind her right ear where a chestnut lock looked as if it was sprouting from her head.
They heard a voice from the hall. “George?”
His mother. Good God.
“George!”
“In the drawing room, Mother,” he called back, heading to the doorway. He could stall her in the hall for a few seconds at least. He turned back to Billie, sharing one last urgent glance. She took her hands from her hair and held them out, as if to say, “Well?”
It would have to do.
“Mother,” he said, stepping into the hall. “You’re up.”
She offered her cheek, which he dutifully kissed. “I can’t stay in my room forever.”