Shirley Kerr (23 page)

With a growl he backed her up to the brick wall. He planted his palms on the brick, on either side of her face, deliciously crowding her with his body.

“I thought I was going to go mad,” he whispered, just before he swooped in and kissed her.

D
esperately needing to touch him, she tore off her gloves and stuffed them in his coat pocket, and gave her full attention to his pulse-pounding, toe-curling kiss.

She had been right. Right about Alistair’s intentions, his desire for her, his apparent need to overwhelm her.

Yesterday he had been gentle and tender. Tonight, tenderness was replaced by a consuming, raw desire that left her gasping for breath, yearning for more.

He wrapped one arm around her waist, yanked her close. His other hand cupped her jaw, his fingers stroking her cheek, back and forth, in a slow caress, the way his lips were caressing hers.

She ran her fingers through his hair and cradled the back of his head with one hand in case he had any foolish notions about pulling away again. She sifted her
fingers through his wavy hair, soft as silk, delightfully disheveled. Later, when they came back to reality, no one would suspect it had been her fingers going through it rather than Alistair’s own.

The kiss changed. She felt the tip of his tongue stroking along the fullness of her bottom lip, moving up, asking to be let in. She opened her mouth, let him in, and all rational thought fled.

Stunned at first by the new flood of sensations, she held perfectly still and let him explore, and felt as much as heard his murmur of approval. He tickled the roof of her mouth, and she wrapped her tongue around his, sucking it farther in. He groaned, and she swallowed the guttural sound. She could still taste a hint of licorice, inextricably mixed with the taste of Alistair.

She saw stars, whether her eyes were open or closed.

It wasn’t enough. Without fully understanding the need, she widened her stance and pressed against his hip. He seemed to know what she needed better than she did, and insinuated one long, muscled thigh between hers. She groaned and pressed even harder against him.

Before she could stop him, he slid the kiss to the corner of her lips and kissed his way along her jaw, to her ear. His breathing was delightfully ragged, warm puffs against the oh-so-sensitive skin of her neck.

“I know what you want,” he whispered against her skin, his lips brushing her earlobe.

She shivered. “You do?” Good thing one of them knew. She tried to form a longer answer, but couldn’t recall any words. Her heart pounded erratically, her breathing just
as ragged as his, every sense attuned to what he was doing, saying.

He continued to explore the texture of her cheek, the curve of her jaw, with the fingers of one hand while his other hand slid down her chin, trailed along her neck to the hollow of her throat, where he could undoubtedly feel the flutter of her pulse.

He nodded, the motion brushing his jaw against hers, just a hint of stubble scraping her sensitized skin. “I’ve seen you watching me.” He nibbled on her earlobe. “Seen the way you stare at my hands, at my fingers.” He dipped his tongue just inside the shell of her ear, making her shiver again. “You want to know what they can do.” He traced the curve of her ear with one fingertip. “What they feel like.” Every word was spoken against her skin, his lips caressing her with every declaration.

She turned her head to make it easier for him to kiss his way over to her other ear, let his fingers continue to caress her. “Nice. They feel nice.” Someday, she’d again be able to speak in words of more than one syllable.

He let out a low laugh, tickling her ear. “You want to know what they feel like against your naked skin.”

She shuddered involuntarily at the image. His fingers were already against her bare skin, dancing along her collarbone, sliding the blanket from her shoulders, skimming the exposed skin just above the neckline of her bodice. Dipping down inside.

She gasped. “Yes. More.”

He cupped one breast, the heat of his hand burning through her silk gown and cotton chemise, while his
fingers caressed the curve above. She couldn’t help letting out a sound distressingly akin to a whimper.

“Shh.” He kissed both her eyelids in turn, then the tip of her nose. “Don’t cry out.” He kissed the underside of her jaw. “You don’t want us to be interrupted, do you?”

Distantly, she heard the clink of glassware, the hum of conversation.

She shook her head, biting her bottom lip to keep from crying out again as Alistair tried to discover just how far down inside her dress his fingers could reach.

He kissed her on the mouth again, and gave her little nips that he soothed with his tongue. He swallowed her moan.

He kissed a trail down her neck, to the top curve of her breast, and kept going down, his cheek skimming against her silk dress, one hand skimming her ribs to her hip. She lost track of his other hand until she felt the cool night air stir against her legs.

Being tall and having long fingers also meant the man had long arms. Bent at the waist, Alistair had slipped his hand under the bottom hem of her gown and wrapped his hand around the stocking encasing her ankle. “Mmm, silk,” he murmured from somewhere in the vicinity of her waist.

He slid his hand up her leg, slowly moving from side to side, up past her calf. He paused to explore the sensitive back of her knee, his fingers dipping into the slight indentation, his touch just firm enough to not be ticklish, before sliding upward again, her gown bunching on his arm as he went.

The air was cool, but all she felt was the heat of his hand on her leg, constantly caressing, raising her skirt as he brought his hand ever higher. She let her head fall back against the brick wall of the chimney stack, feeling almost giddy, beyond caring that this was much more than she’d bargained for when she’d kissed him.

He reached the top of her stocking and paused, his hand cradling the back of her bare thigh. She felt all four fingers, his wide palm, every callus, his thumb stroking back and forth just above her knee. She wished there was enough light for her to see it clearly—his strong hand on her bare thigh.

He raised her skirt even higher and bent down to press a hot kiss halfway up her naked thigh. And then another. And two to the other leg as well. Good thing she had a solid wall at her back to keep her from toppling over. She reached out and pressed one hand against the cool brick to keep her steady, rested her other on the fine wool covering his broad shoulder.

He straightened, keeping his hand on her leg, her skirt still bunched up on his forearm. “Do you have any idea,” he slid his hand from one side to the other, “the effect you had on me,” he skimmed across to the other leg, “when I caught a glimpse of these the other night?”

Well, no. She’d been so concerned with the practical considerations of climbing up to the balcony without her dress getting in her way, she hadn’t considered how he might be affected by her actions. Or her inadvertent display of skin.

“Just a tiny peek of creamy flesh.” His hand slid higher,
almost to the top of her leg now. “So soft.” Most of her skirt was bunched on his arm, the gentle breeze brushing her bare legs.

What was he going to do when he ran out of leg?

She had trouble drawing sufficient breath into her lungs.

He kissed his way back up her throat, over her chin, skimmed the corner of her mouth, and up to her ear. “I’m going to give you what you want now.” He nibbled the tip of her earlobe between his teeth, soothed it with his tongue. “I’m going to touch you.”

What had he been doing all this time, if not touching her? Her skin was on fire from his touch.

He trailed his fingers across the front of her thigh, higher. To her center.

And cupped her in the palm of his hand.

She sucked in a shuddering breath.

Another meteor blazed across the sky overhead.

Holding her, his hand motionless while she adjusted to the shock of such intimate contact, he pressed his body against her side. He cradled the back of her head, his thumb brushing her ear, while his lips grazed her other ear when he spoke. “This is what you wanted, Charlotte. Every time you stared at my fingers, this is what you were imagining.”

She moved her lips, tried to form a protest, but the only sound that emerged was a low moan.

He started to move his left hand, back and forth, brushing against the crisp curls between her legs, sending tiny ripples of pleasure throughout her body.

How could this be what she had imagined? She had hardly dared touch herself in such a manner, even in the privacy of her bath, let alone thought of someone else ever doing so. She had tried to imagine what he could do with his fingers, but her imagination was no match for reality.

He increased the pressure, molding his hand to her, massaging back and forth. Needing more, she spread her legs a little wider and started moving her hips, meeting each thrust of his hand.

“Yes, Charlotte,” he whispered against her ear. “I know what you want.”

Smug braggart, she thought without any real rancor, and thrust harder.

So intent on the sensations he was creating down below, she barely registered the way he caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. He captured her lips in another open kiss, at the same time his fingers spread the folds of skin below and slid between them.

He swallowed her gasp.

Slick with evidence of her desire, his finger slid in and out, while his thumb brushed against a particularly sensitive spot that sent sparks shooting along her every nerve ending.

“Don’t cry out,” he whispered against her mouth.

She heard the distant rumble of conversation, a reminder that there was nothing to shield her and Alistair from discovery but a chimney stack and darkness.

She tried to swallow back the sounds emerging from the back of her throat but was helpless to quiet down her
harsh breathing. It became harder to draw air as he increased the tempo and pressure. Something started to build, deep within her.

“I want to bury myself inside you,” he said at the same time his fingers did just that. “I want to plunge deep inside your moist heat, feel your warmth, until you envelop me entirely.” His thumb brushed over the sensitive nub again.

She saw another blazing meteor, even though her eyes were closed.

“But I can wait.”

Of his desire, she had no doubt, as he was still pressed against her hip, his arousal undoubtedly straining his breeches. Given that she was so much shorter than him, was there a crate nearby for her to stand on? Since her injury made her too sore to lie on her back, this was the best position for them to finish what they’d started. And she desperately needed to finish, whatever this was, whatever it entailed.

She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him, but his tongue dove inside in a hot, searing kiss that made her incapable of speech. Possibly for the next week. At least.

She tried to differentiate the sensations assailing her—his kiss, the fingers of his right hand gently, tenderly, stroking the sensitive skin around her ear, the very talented fingers of his busy left hand, his thumb fluttering over that little nub, until the little ripples of pleasure grew to waves big enough to drown her.

Unable to articulate her need, not even certain what her need was, she pounded on Alistair’s shoulder, panting for breath.

“That’s it.” His hand thrust faster, harder. “You’re almost there.”

“More,” she gasped.

She bucked against him, clenching his hair in her fist, clutching the back of his head, arching her back, pressing him even closer, until suddenly all the stars overhead exploded at once and rained fire down on her, burning her from within.

She clung to Alistair, her knees in imminent danger of collapsing.

Over the thudding of her heart she gradually realized he was whispering soothing nonsense in her ear, dusting her cheek and neck with light kisses, his breath stirring the hair that had come loose from her chignon.

She moved one leg, and realized Alistair had not yet removed his hand. Fine tremors still coursed through her body. Not trusting her voice yet, she unclenched her fingers and smoothed his hair.

He slowly, oh so slowly, slid his hand out from between her legs, setting off more tremors, and let her skirt slide down her legs, back into place. “Sweet Charlotte,” he whispered in her ear.

Her breathing almost back to normal, she cleared her throat. “What’s next?” Even to her own ears, her voice was unusually husky.

Leaning his forehead against hers, Alistair gave a soft chuckle.

“Isn’t it your turn?”

He’d moved his hips back, no longer in contact with hers, so she was uncertain of his state. “I told you, I will wait.”

The sound of carriages clattering past on the street below brought her back to the reality of their location, on Lord Grisham’s rooftop. People stargazing just a few yards away, dancers whirling to music downstairs. Above, the stars still twinkled in their proper places.

“But what about you? That can’t be all we’re going to do.”

“It is for now.” He ghosted his fingertips across her cheek, ran his thumb over her lips. “I don’t think you have a whisker burn, but we’ll have to wait before we go into the light. One look at your kiss-swollen lips and anyone with two thoughts to rub together will know what we’ve been doing.”

She traced his lips with her thumb. “You, too.”

He kissed the pad of her thumb. “Me, too.”

He’d outmaneuvered her, and she’d lost the skirmish. Soundly.

She didn’t care.

Part of her mind—the part not busy reliving every moment, every touch and caress of the last few minutes, the logical part—recognized the strategy he’d employed just now. He’d renewed his argument for them to marry by giving her a sample of the delights to be shared between them as husband and wife. A carrot, rather than a stick.

Later, she would probably be annoyed with him for lulling her into his trap, irritated at herself for falling into it.

But right now, she still throbbed with remembered pleasure, and felt as mellow as if she’d had one too many glasses of wine. She was willing to concede his victory, but just in this skirmish. The battle wasn’t over yet.

They stayed motionless for another few precious seconds, then with unspoken accord each began adjusting their clothing, setting things to right.