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Authors: Megan Frampton
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more, if she hadn’t pulled him back to her and twined her hands in his hair so he couldn’t escape, even if he wanted to.
He did not want to. He leaned into her, slanted his mouth over hers, put his hands at her waist and held her, then opened his mouth just a bit so as to coax hers to open as well. Her lips were warm and moist, and their bodies touched just at the most delicious places—her breasts, his cock, their mouths. A perfect triumvirate of passion that was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. And he had indulged before, just not to completion, so he did have some perspective on the matter.
She did take the hint, and she opened to him, sliding her tongue into his mouth and uttering a soft moan low, deep in her throat, that sent an answering shiver through him.
And they were both still entirely clothed, out on the street, where anyone—
“We have to stop,” he said, pulling away from her mouth but not yet strong enough to lift his hands from her waist. Her expression was dazed, and he felt a brief moment of triumph that he, as little experienced in such things as he was, could reduce her to that state with just a simple kiss.
But it wasn’t simple, not at all, not when you thought of the touching of bodies and mouths, the tangling of tongues, the soft sigh that had escaped her, the way his cock had reacted to the feel of her body against his.
Not simple at all.
“I apologize,” Matthew said stiffly as he drew away from her mouth and her warm, luscious form.
“Oh hush, my lord,” she replied, as though it was customary for her to be kissed on London streets. And perhaps it was; what did he know about her, except that she was not a housekeeper? But he also knew there wasn’t a deceptive bone in her body, just a joyful frankness that was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. So the fact that it seemed as though she was not upset or prudish about what had happened was as natural to her as it would have been for another lady to slap his face for his familiarity. Even if the latter lady had secretly enjoyed it.
He far preferred her response.
“If I hadn’t wanted you to kiss me, I wouldn’t have engaged you in a kiss. Isn’t that your logic? ‘If I had wanted a cook, I would have hired one,’ ” she said, lowering her voice and trying for a Scottish accent, which she mangled very badly.
He felt his lips curl up into a tight grimace, as though discussing the aftereffects of an impetuous kiss on a London street was something he could smile about. It was not, not at all, and a part of him, the part of him that was making its presence quite well-known in his trousers, wished he would just push her up against the building again and ravage her mouth, taste her sweet lips, and run his palms all over her curves. Better yet, take her home where there was a place where they might get horizontal with one another and not have to risk being seen.
Home. Hell, that was where they were both going, wasn’t it? Not that the London house was his home, per se, but it was acting in place of his home for the duration. The month he was in town sorting out his uncle’s business, being seen off and welcomed home every day . . . and night . . . by this woman whom he already found intoxicating.
He would have to maintain his renowned attributes of propriety and sense in keeping himself away from her.
He already hated that far, far more than either being early, being late, or wasting money.
I t seemed she made him lose his speech, and perhaps part of his brain, judging by the expression on his face. Annabelle shouldn’t have been so delighted by this turn of events—the kiss and his reaction to it—as much as she was, but the truth was, she was, and she was curious, so curious, about how she could get under his skin, not to mention onto his mouth.
Being a fallen woman had its benefits; she knew precisely what she could do to keep herself from being permanently fallen, and she also wasn’t
He did not want to. He leaned into her, slanted his mouth over hers, put his hands at her waist and held her, then opened his mouth just a bit so as to coax hers to open as well. Her lips were warm and moist, and their bodies touched just at the most delicious places—her breasts, his cock, their mouths. A perfect triumvirate of passion that was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. And he had indulged before, just not to completion, so he did have some perspective on the matter.
She did take the hint, and she opened to him, sliding her tongue into his mouth and uttering a soft moan low, deep in her throat, that sent an answering shiver through him.
And they were both still entirely clothed, out on the street, where anyone—
“We have to stop,” he said, pulling away from her mouth but not yet strong enough to lift his hands from her waist. Her expression was dazed, and he felt a brief moment of triumph that he, as little experienced in such things as he was, could reduce her to that state with just a simple kiss.
But it wasn’t simple, not at all, not when you thought of the touching of bodies and mouths, the tangling of tongues, the soft sigh that had escaped her, the way his cock had reacted to the feel of her body against his.
Not simple at all.
“I apologize,” Matthew said stiffly as he drew away from her mouth and her warm, luscious form.
“Oh hush, my lord,” she replied, as though it was customary for her to be kissed on London streets. And perhaps it was; what did he know about her, except that she was not a housekeeper? But he also knew there wasn’t a deceptive bone in her body, just a joyful frankness that was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. So the fact that it seemed as though she was not upset or prudish about what had happened was as natural to her as it would have been for another lady to slap his face for his familiarity. Even if the latter lady had secretly enjoyed it.
He far preferred her response.
“If I hadn’t wanted you to kiss me, I wouldn’t have engaged you in a kiss. Isn’t that your logic? ‘If I had wanted a cook, I would have hired one,’ ” she said, lowering her voice and trying for a Scottish accent, which she mangled very badly.
He felt his lips curl up into a tight grimace, as though discussing the aftereffects of an impetuous kiss on a London street was something he could smile about. It was not, not at all, and a part of him, the part of him that was making its presence quite well-known in his trousers, wished he would just push her up against the building again and ravage her mouth, taste her sweet lips, and run his palms all over her curves. Better yet, take her home where there was a place where they might get horizontal with one another and not have to risk being seen.
Home. Hell, that was where they were both going, wasn’t it? Not that the London house was his home, per se, but it was acting in place of his home for the duration. The month he was in town sorting out his uncle’s business, being seen off and welcomed home every day . . . and night . . . by this woman whom he already found intoxicating.
He would have to maintain his renowned attributes of propriety and sense in keeping himself away from her.
He already hated that far, far more than either being early, being late, or wasting money.
I t seemed she made him lose his speech, and perhaps part of his brain, judging by the expression on his face. Annabelle shouldn’t have been so delighted by this turn of events—the kiss and his reaction to it—as much as she was, but the truth was, she was, and she was curious, so curious, about how she could get under his skin, not to mention onto his mouth.
Being a fallen woman had its benefits; she knew precisely what she could do to keep herself from being permanently fallen, and she also wasn’t
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