Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Where a Viscount Learns Lessons in Love
With an oath, he was out of his chair, sending it to the floor with a bang.
He dropped to his knees before her, studying her stunned expression like he would a diagram of one of his designs.
His hand went to cradle her cheek. Her skin was soft, creamy, glowing in the candlelight.
Her lips parted, inviting him to touch her.
He didn’t understand why he wanted her with such intensity.
Stronger than he recalled yearning for another human being.
“I’m going to kiss you, sweetheart. Senseless, if I can manage it.
Stop me now if that’s not what you want. ”
She reached and, instead of pushing him away, wrapped her hand around his wrist and held him to her. “I haven’t agreed to any agreements. This is my life. Until I leave Derbyshire, it’s my life. You’re only taking what I want to give. There is no betrayal or confusion on my part.”
He closed in until his lips brushed hers. She tasted of tea and lilies, lemon and life. “Your choice then.”
She hummed a yes and slanted her head, seizing his lips when he would have moved in gradually. Awkward, eager, remarkable. Her hunger palpable, wrapping him in gossamer strands of longing .
She was untried but not.
Tangling her hand in his hair, she slid forward, sending his body rocking back.
Her breasts were full and warm against his chest. Her bountiful body within reach for the first time.
Weakened, he parted his lips, engaging her tongue in play.
Showing her. This . And this. She moaned, the ragged vibration trailing from his mouth directly to his hardening cock.
Without hesitation, she followed his guidance until they found a faultless fit. That moment when a kiss climbs a mountain, soars away from the people initiating it, and into the heavens. Two becoming one.
Take , his mind shouted. Take her .
Show her how wonderful it can be.
Her hairpins were easily removed until her glorious strands filled his fist. His other hand going to her waist, fingers curling around her hip in possession, bringing her off the chair and against him.
On their knees, they worshiped. She was on a quest to destroy—even if she didn’t know it. She handled him greedily, exploring. Smiling against his lips when he groaned low in his throat at her aggression.
The sensation was dizzying. Of being seduced. Coerced. Splendidly manipulated. When that had always been his role. This witty, kind, intelligent American hellion was diminishing his prior experiences until they were muted images and nothing more.
She was making him forget everything but her.
The ground shifted beneath his feet, around his heart, in ways he wasn’t ready to allow. Because something about this—about her —felt right .
Which scared the shite out of him.
Taking her face in his hands, he wrenched back, their breath pelting each other’s cheeks. “We’d better stop, Franny. I’m losing my list of reasons for not taking you upstairs and discovering your incredible body on a medieval bed the size of a small village.”
She smirked, a cagey bit of feminine persuasion that had his cock threatening to make choices for him. Dusting her thumb across his lower lip, she added a nibble to seal the deal. “Do you want to stop? I don’t.”
Rising, he yanked her up and stepped between her legs. His hand cupped the back of her head, bringing her lips to his. The kiss immediately tumbled into that magnificent spot it would never leave—not as long as they continued.
For years. Forever.
The intimate, lush space they’d created. The us .
Dazed, he roped his arm around her waist and lifted her to the balls of her feet.
His shaft met the molten valley between her thighs in a grinding, elemental, age-old dance.
She clutched his shoulder, hand curving around the nape of his neck, urging him closer.
Mating with clothing rumpled but in place.
He wasn’t unfastening more buttons on her gown, he wasn’t . Even if he wanted to more than he wanted to get his desk into bloody Carlton House.
Losing patience, his skin starting to tingle, he walked her back until she hit the wall, his lips sliding down her jaw as he pressed his hips to hers.
He would die for her body. Throw himself before her and beg for…
one… taste. Imagining her naked, and that’s what he was doing, brought him closer to doom.
Sparks lit behind his lids as she wiggled against him, his cock finding a delightful temporary home nestled between her thighs.
He had the sensation. The I-could-come-soon buzz from nothing more than a kiss. Grabbing her hips, he let her feel everything she was doing to him, unable to hide his need. Unable to do a damned thing but want her.
Her head dropped back, a sigh ripping free. “ Remington .”
“Chance, remember?” he murmured, his breath a tender burn over her skin. “Remington was my father.”
She pulled back enough to stare into his eyes. Hers were wide and such a vibrant golden hue it took his breath. “Only your friends call you Chance.”
He touched his brow to hers, willing his heart to slow. “How good”—he swallowed, a loud click in the night—“a friend do you want to be, Franny Shaw?”
She gazed at him, candlelight creating magic.
Bathing them in gilded awareness. Desire and inevitability converged, a blistering shroud.
“I want to sketch you in that medieval bed the size of a small village. You promised I could, after all.” She caught the edge of his mouth with her tongue, seeking admission.
Rough, unsteady, and devastating. “ After ,” she whispered, her voice cracking with desire.
Chance’s hand closed into a fist at her hip. Drawing her skirt up, he tried valiantly not to imagine what lay beneath.
Although he was losing the battle.
He wanted her to leave this night believing she couldn’t live without him. “You know what you’re asking?”
For the space of a second, she looked uncertain. More understanding than he wished she had flashing across her face. Then the passion they generated floated back in, erasing her unease. “I know. And since you’re being a gentleman and asking, I’m saying yes.”
“I’m asking,” he murmured hoarsely, took her hand, and dragged her from the room.
Franny thought to tell him she had experience. A little.
To ease his concern. Because he glanced back twice as he hauled her along the darkened corridors, indecision marking his features.
A slight frown dancing in and out of candlelight.
His features starkly stunning, reminding her why she’d wanted to capture them on paper.
Indecision even as his shaft jutted beneath the fine wool of his trousers, proof of his yearning.
There was simply no way to conceal it, especially when it had been pressed like a stone against her hip.
Franny smiled tenderly. She was going to touch him. Soon .
And then she would fill a thousand canvases with his image.
She would discover what she’d missed before. When she’d let curiosity and a half-attraction mistakenly lead her to a man’s bed. A man she’d assumed liked if not loved her. A man who had been her friend. A man who had falsely said no one else would want her.
But this man wanted her. So, she was letting him take her.
They stumbled down passageways, taking turns until she lost her way.
Up a narrow, winding servant’s stairwell.
Curving, curving. Where she finally stopped him, taking the higher step and his lips in a bruising kiss because she couldn’t not .
A persistent pulse began to beat between her thighs, a rush of blood through her head.
For the first time, she believed she was going to experience pleasure with someone, not merely her forlorn touch in the darkness of her bedchamber.
Chance moaned in silent, unwitting agreement, lingering, his touch trailing from her waist to her shoulders. Along every curve, and she possessed a few. Back to her breasts, where he filled his hands, his thumbs snaking over her nipples.
What he could locate beneath layers—layers she wanted gone .
Their harsh exhalations filled the confined space, echoes reverberating as she yanked his cravat free and let it flutter to the stairs.
Pulling himself from the kiss, he crouched to retrieve the strip of silk, then continued up, his fingers linked with hers.
“We’re not tupping on the staircase, my eager girl.
” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze molten.
“And yes, it’s possible. Not comfortable perhaps…
but possible. Maybe someday, I’ll show you. Now, we need a bed.”
Then conversely, he made the trip to his chamber a challenging journey.
Stopping her at the top of the stairs, at each doorway they passed, a meandering, passionate exploration that carried them in circles down the hallway.
As if he couldn’t go two steps without touching her.
Working the buttons on the back of her gown until it hung off her shoulders.
His cravat lost. A button on his shirt tumbling away from them and across the faded runner.
When they made it to his bedchamber, it was madness. She didn’t even stop to examine his personal space for the clues she desperately wanted to grasp about him.
Wrapping her in his arms, he kicked the door closed and murmured words she didn’t comprehend against her neck.
His breath was sweet and hot, scorching her to her bones.
He moved away only long enough to awkwardly remove his boots while she toed off her slippers.
Then they challenged each other with snickering, gasping pleas and gazes that singed the air.
Clothing became a puddle at their feet. Shirt, trousers, drawers.
Gloves, gown, chemise, stays, stockings.