Chapter Seven #3
“Then do it,” she breathed. “Claim me.”
Something broke in his expression. The last thread of restraint, the final barrier of propriety.
He kissed her.
It was not a gentle kiss. Not the tentative exploration of inexperienced lovers.
It was a claiming, fierce and hungry and utterly without restraint.
His mouth slanted over hers with devastating expertise, his lips coaxing hers apart, his tongue sliding against her own in a way that made her entire body arch toward him.
She had imagined this. Had dreamed of it endlessly. But imagination was nothing compared to the reality of William Bradworth’s mouth on hers.
He kissed her like a man starving, like she was water in a desert, like he had been waiting his entire life for exactly this moment.
His hands left the wall to frame her face, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and she heard herself whimper against his lips, a desperate, needy sound that should have embarrassed her but only seemed to inflame him further.
“Eliza,” he groaned into her mouth.
Her name on his lips, spoken like that, was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced.
She clutched at his shoulders, his coat, anything she could reach, trying to pull him closer even though there was no closer to be had.
Her body was on fire. Every nerve was alight with sensation, his taste, his scent, the hard press of his body against hers, the devastating skill of his mouth.
He kissed her jaw. Her throat. The sensitive place beneath her ear that made her gasp and arch against him. His lips traced a burning path down her neck, pausing at her pulse point to suck gently, and she felt the sensation all the way to her toes.
“I want…” She didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Didn’t have the vocabulary for what she wanted. Only knew that this wasn’t enough, that she needed more, that she would die if he stopped touching her.
“I know what you want.” His voice was dark, knowing, devastating.
“I want it too. I want to lift your skirts and put my hand between your thighs and discover exactly how much you want me. I want to feel how wet you are for me, because you are, aren’t you?
You’re aching right now, desperate for a touch you’ve never experienced. ”
She moaned. Actually moaned, out loud, in a corridor where anyone might hear.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I am. Please.”
“Not here.” The words seemed to cost him physical pain. He pulled back, just slightly, just enough to look at her, and his grey eyes were wild with want. “Not like this. Not your first… Blast it, I want to give you everything, Eliza. I want your first time to be…”
He stopped. Pressed his forehead against hers. His breathing was ragged, his body tense with the effort of restraint.
“We have to stop,” he said, and it sounded like a death sentence.
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Neither do I. That’s precisely the problem.” He laughed, a broken, desperate sound. “If we don’t stop now, I am going to do something we’ll both regret. Something that will ruin you. And I find…” His voice cracked. “I find I cannot bear the thought of ruining you. Even if you’re asking me to.”
She understood. Through the haze of want, she understood. This corridor was not safe. Anyone could discover them. And what he wanted, what they both wanted, required privacy, time, the absence of risk.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Find me tomorrow. Find somewhere we can—”
“Yes.” He kissed her again, brief but fierce. “Yes. Tomorrow. I will find a way.” Another kiss. “I should take you back. Your aunt will be looking for you.”
“I don’t care about my aunt.”
“You should care. Your reputation—”
“Is already compromised by this conversation, I imagine.”
“Then let us not compromise it further.” He stepped back, and the loss of his warmth was physical pain. “Tomorrow, Eliza. I promise you. Tomorrow, I will…”
He stopped. Seemed to be struggling with something.
“You will what?”
“I will offer you something real,” he said finally. “Not vague intentions. Not warnings and withdrawals. Something you can hold me to. Something that proves you are not just a game to me.”
Her heart clenched. “William.”
“Tomorrow.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, a gesture so tender after the ferocity of what had come before that she felt tears prick at her eyes. “Wait for me. Please.”
She nodded. She could not speak.
He led her back to the musicale, delivered her to her aunt with flawless propriety, and disappeared into the crowd without a backward glance.
But Eliza could still feel his mouth on hers.
Could still feel the press of his body, the rasp of his voice, the desperate hunger of his kiss.
Tomorrow, she thought.
And for the first time since meeting the Duke of Hollowshade, she felt something beyond fear or hope or confusion.
She felt certainty.
Whatever came next, whatever he offered, whatever it cost, she was his. She had been his since the moment he first looked at her across a crowded ballroom.
She was only now finding the courage to admit it.