longed to be kissed.
He had a magnetic quality. When he’d walked out his gaze had called follow, and an invisible thread had pulled her here.
Lord Framlington pulled that invisible thread again and it drew her nearer still.
His fingers trailed across her jaw, then his thumb brushed over her lips.
She met his gaze, though she could barely see him in the darkness beyond a silhouette. The smell of tobacco carried on his breath.
This is madness. Why did I come to him ? Why am I doing this?
“Not here,” she breathed as his lips neared hers. “Anyone may see us.”
She could not see his lips curve and yet she sensed they did. His fingers opened, spreading to cradle the line of her jaw while his other hand gripped her waist. He pressed her backward.
In a trance she let him back her into the darkness, into the corner where the wall of the house turned at the side of the steps, and met the high yew hedge bordering the garden beyond the terrace.
They were deep in the shadows, she could not see him at all, but she could feel his tall frame against her and his strong hand half holding, half caressing at her waist, while the hand cradling her jaw slid to her nape and pulled her mouth to his.
Oh heavens.
His lips were firm then soft against hers, coaxing her to kiss him back.
A sensual ache spiralled through her stomach, sliding down between her legs. Her arms lifted and her fingers settled on his broad shoulders as she leaned into him, clung to him, and gave herself up to kissing him back.
It was delicious and wicked, and utterly stupid. But she didn’t care, she didn’t want to think, she just wanted to feel. Her body fitted to his perfectly, her back curving, her hip bone pressing to his, her breasts crushed against his chest.
A groan rumbled deep in his chest. She felt it in her mouth and her breasts.
His tongue slid between her parted lips, tentatively at first, then deep, then tentative again, tempting her, encouraging her to seek more.
She wanted more with a bone-deep longing; his kiss dissolved her senses.
Her fingers clasped his hair as he pressed her further back, the wall grazing one shoulder while the sharp clipped bows of the yew hedge pierced her other.
The sound of the orchestra spun into the night air. The supper hour was over.
He did not stop, his tongue danced about hers as his fingers cupped her bottom and pulled her hips more snugly to his.
A ridge of hard flesh in his trousers pressed against her abdomen, it ought to have scared her. It did not.
His grip stayed tender and gentle while the play of his tongue enchanted.
“God, Mary, you’re beautiful,” he whispered into her mouth. “Better than I imagined.”
His fingers slid up over her hips and her waist, then settled at her ribs and his thumbs brushed the first curve of her bosom.
“Mary,” he said her name again with a dizzying awe. Then he kissed her jaw and her neck, while his palms settled over her breasts, kneading her flesh through her gown.
Voices spilled from the open French doors onto the terrace. People would be dancing again soon, crowding into the ballroom and walking out on to the terrace. Her heart pounded hard, fear, excitement and bewilderment mingling.
He didn’t stop, his teeth nipped her neck while one hand left her breast and slid downwards.
Oh.
He touched between her legs, stroking inward over the material of her gown pressing it to the warm wet flesh at the juncture of her thighs.
She knew men and women joined there. That was where she craved him.
His strokes were tender, careful, like his teeth and lips on her skin, and the grasp of his hand on her breast.
Anticipation and desire climbed, as if her body sought a peek.
Her breath quickened and a sob broke from her lips as delicious sensations wove a spell in her blood.
The hum of conversation seeped from the ballroom along with a melody the orchestra played.
She should tell him to stop, but wrapped in the darkness, hidden from view, the danger
He had a magnetic quality. When he’d walked out his gaze had called follow, and an invisible thread had pulled her here.
Lord Framlington pulled that invisible thread again and it drew her nearer still.
His fingers trailed across her jaw, then his thumb brushed over her lips.
She met his gaze, though she could barely see him in the darkness beyond a silhouette. The smell of tobacco carried on his breath.
This is madness. Why did I come to him ? Why am I doing this?
“Not here,” she breathed as his lips neared hers. “Anyone may see us.”
She could not see his lips curve and yet she sensed they did. His fingers opened, spreading to cradle the line of her jaw while his other hand gripped her waist. He pressed her backward.
In a trance she let him back her into the darkness, into the corner where the wall of the house turned at the side of the steps, and met the high yew hedge bordering the garden beyond the terrace.
They were deep in the shadows, she could not see him at all, but she could feel his tall frame against her and his strong hand half holding, half caressing at her waist, while the hand cradling her jaw slid to her nape and pulled her mouth to his.
Oh heavens.
His lips were firm then soft against hers, coaxing her to kiss him back.
A sensual ache spiralled through her stomach, sliding down between her legs. Her arms lifted and her fingers settled on his broad shoulders as she leaned into him, clung to him, and gave herself up to kissing him back.
It was delicious and wicked, and utterly stupid. But she didn’t care, she didn’t want to think, she just wanted to feel. Her body fitted to his perfectly, her back curving, her hip bone pressing to his, her breasts crushed against his chest.
A groan rumbled deep in his chest. She felt it in her mouth and her breasts.
His tongue slid between her parted lips, tentatively at first, then deep, then tentative again, tempting her, encouraging her to seek more.
She wanted more with a bone-deep longing; his kiss dissolved her senses.
Her fingers clasped his hair as he pressed her further back, the wall grazing one shoulder while the sharp clipped bows of the yew hedge pierced her other.
The sound of the orchestra spun into the night air. The supper hour was over.
He did not stop, his tongue danced about hers as his fingers cupped her bottom and pulled her hips more snugly to his.
A ridge of hard flesh in his trousers pressed against her abdomen, it ought to have scared her. It did not.
His grip stayed tender and gentle while the play of his tongue enchanted.
“God, Mary, you’re beautiful,” he whispered into her mouth. “Better than I imagined.”
His fingers slid up over her hips and her waist, then settled at her ribs and his thumbs brushed the first curve of her bosom.
“Mary,” he said her name again with a dizzying awe. Then he kissed her jaw and her neck, while his palms settled over her breasts, kneading her flesh through her gown.
Voices spilled from the open French doors onto the terrace. People would be dancing again soon, crowding into the ballroom and walking out on to the terrace. Her heart pounded hard, fear, excitement and bewilderment mingling.
He didn’t stop, his teeth nipped her neck while one hand left her breast and slid downwards.
Oh.
He touched between her legs, stroking inward over the material of her gown pressing it to the warm wet flesh at the juncture of her thighs.
She knew men and women joined there. That was where she craved him.
His strokes were tender, careful, like his teeth and lips on her skin, and the grasp of his hand on her breast.
Anticipation and desire climbed, as if her body sought a peek.
Her breath quickened and a sob broke from her lips as delicious sensations wove a spell in her blood.
The hum of conversation seeped from the ballroom along with a melody the orchestra played.
She should tell him to stop, but wrapped in the darkness, hidden from view, the danger
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