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Authors: Julia Quinn
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away.
But only so far that he could rest his nose against hers.
He smiled.
He felt happy.
And then she spoke. “Is that all?”
He went absolutely still. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought there might be more,” she said, not unkindly. In fact, more than anything else, she sounded perplexed.
He tried not to laugh. He knew he shouldn’t. She looked so earnest; it would be beyond insulting to laugh at her. He pressed his lips together, trying to hold down the bubble of sheer amusement that was bouncing around within him.
“It was nice,” she said, and it almost sounded as if she was trying to reassure him.
He had to bite his tongue. It was the only way.
“It’s all right,” she said, giving him the sort of sympathetic smile one gives to a child who is not good at games.
He opened his mouth to say her name, then remembered he didn’t know it.
He held up a hand. A finger, to be more precise. A simple, concise directive.
Halt,
it said clearly.
Don’t say another word.
Her brows lifted in question.
“There’s more,” he said.
She started to say something.
He took his finger and pressed it right up against her mouth. “Oh, there’s more.”
And this time, he
really
kissed her. He took her lips with his, explored, nibbled,
devoured.
He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her against him, hard, until he could feel every one of her luscious curves against his body.
And she was luscious. No, she was
lush.
She had a woman’s body, rounded and warm, with soft curves that begged to be stroked and squeezed. She was the kind of woman a mancould lose himself in, happily surrendering all sense and reason.
She was the kind of woman a man did not leave in the middle of the night. She would be warm and soft, a languid pillow and blanket, all rolled into one.
She was a siren. A gorgeous exotic temptress who was somehow utterly innocent. She had no idea what she was doing. Hell, she probably had no idea what
he
was doing, either. And yet all it took was an untutored smile, a tiny sigh, and he was lost.
He wanted her. He wanted to
know
her. Every inch of her. His blood burned, his body sang, and if he hadn’t suddenly heard a raucous shout from the direction of the house, heaven only knew what he would have done.
She stiffened as well, her head snapping a bit to the right, pointing her ear toward the commotion.
It was just enough for Sebastian to regain his senses, or at least a small piece of them. He pushed her away, more roughly than he’d intended, and planted his hands on his hips, breathing hard.
“That
was
more,” she said, sounding dazed.
He looked over at her. Her hair wasn’t quite undone, but it was certainly fashioned more loosely than it had been before. And her lips—he’d thought they were full and plump before, but now she looked positively bee stung.
Anyone who had ever been kissed would know that
she
had just been kissed. Thoroughly.
“You’ll want to tidy up your hair,” he said, andhe was quite certain it was the least appropriate post-kiss comment he had ever made. But he couldn’t seem to summon his usual flair. Style and grace apparently required presence of mind.
Who would have imagined it?
“Oh,” she said, her hand immediately patting her hair, trying rather unsuccessfully to smooth it down. “I’m sorry.”
Not that she had anything to apologize for, but Sebastian was too busy trying to locate his own brain to say so.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he finally said. Because it was the truth. And he knew better. He did not dally with innocents, and certainly not in (almost) full view of a filled-to-the-brim ballroom.
He did not lose control. It simply wasn’t his way.
He was furious with himself. Furious. It was an unfamiliar, and wholly unpleasant emotion. He did pity, and plenty of self-mockery, and he could have written a book on mild annoyance. But fury?
It just wasn’t something he cared to partake of. Not toward others, and certainly not
But only so far that he could rest his nose against hers.
He smiled.
He felt happy.
And then she spoke. “Is that all?”
He went absolutely still. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought there might be more,” she said, not unkindly. In fact, more than anything else, she sounded perplexed.
He tried not to laugh. He knew he shouldn’t. She looked so earnest; it would be beyond insulting to laugh at her. He pressed his lips together, trying to hold down the bubble of sheer amusement that was bouncing around within him.
“It was nice,” she said, and it almost sounded as if she was trying to reassure him.
He had to bite his tongue. It was the only way.
“It’s all right,” she said, giving him the sort of sympathetic smile one gives to a child who is not good at games.
He opened his mouth to say her name, then remembered he didn’t know it.
He held up a hand. A finger, to be more precise. A simple, concise directive.
Halt,
it said clearly.
Don’t say another word.
Her brows lifted in question.
“There’s more,” he said.
She started to say something.
He took his finger and pressed it right up against her mouth. “Oh, there’s more.”
And this time, he
really
kissed her. He took her lips with his, explored, nibbled,
devoured.
He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her against him, hard, until he could feel every one of her luscious curves against his body.
And she was luscious. No, she was
lush.
She had a woman’s body, rounded and warm, with soft curves that begged to be stroked and squeezed. She was the kind of woman a mancould lose himself in, happily surrendering all sense and reason.
She was the kind of woman a man did not leave in the middle of the night. She would be warm and soft, a languid pillow and blanket, all rolled into one.
She was a siren. A gorgeous exotic temptress who was somehow utterly innocent. She had no idea what she was doing. Hell, she probably had no idea what
he
was doing, either. And yet all it took was an untutored smile, a tiny sigh, and he was lost.
He wanted her. He wanted to
know
her. Every inch of her. His blood burned, his body sang, and if he hadn’t suddenly heard a raucous shout from the direction of the house, heaven only knew what he would have done.
She stiffened as well, her head snapping a bit to the right, pointing her ear toward the commotion.
It was just enough for Sebastian to regain his senses, or at least a small piece of them. He pushed her away, more roughly than he’d intended, and planted his hands on his hips, breathing hard.
“That
was
more,” she said, sounding dazed.
He looked over at her. Her hair wasn’t quite undone, but it was certainly fashioned more loosely than it had been before. And her lips—he’d thought they were full and plump before, but now she looked positively bee stung.
Anyone who had ever been kissed would know that
she
had just been kissed. Thoroughly.
“You’ll want to tidy up your hair,” he said, andhe was quite certain it was the least appropriate post-kiss comment he had ever made. But he couldn’t seem to summon his usual flair. Style and grace apparently required presence of mind.
Who would have imagined it?
“Oh,” she said, her hand immediately patting her hair, trying rather unsuccessfully to smooth it down. “I’m sorry.”
Not that she had anything to apologize for, but Sebastian was too busy trying to locate his own brain to say so.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he finally said. Because it was the truth. And he knew better. He did not dally with innocents, and certainly not in (almost) full view of a filled-to-the-brim ballroom.
He did not lose control. It simply wasn’t his way.
He was furious with himself. Furious. It was an unfamiliar, and wholly unpleasant emotion. He did pity, and plenty of self-mockery, and he could have written a book on mild annoyance. But fury?
It just wasn’t something he cared to partake of. Not toward others, and certainly not
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