Chapter 3 #2
“Nonetheless, look at this disaster in the making. Men,” she whispered as she wrapped a strip of luminous white cotton around his forearm.
“I’ve been doctoring the Leighton Cluster’s wounds since I was a child.
My mother said I’d make a capable physician, were it an acceptable profession for women.
Although my father said if it was my dream, he’d move heaven and earth to make it happen.
Why, I’ve never once fainted at the sight of blood, and with our family’s skirmishes, I’ve seen buckets spilled.
One word and there you go, scuffling in the dirt. ”
Nigel wasn’t the hottest head in the group—that title fully belonged to the Duke of Leighton, with Arabella’s beloved father coming in second—but he’d had his fair share of familial brawls.
“Why, then?” He flexed his fingers, relieved the wound was slightly less tender.
The tight bandage combined with a proper cleaning seemed to be doing the trick.
Her gaze roved up his arm, lingering around his collarbone, leaving a hot trail behind it.
When it finally stuck on his face, he sucked in a shallow breath.
There it was—the desire he imagined filling his own eyes.
“I would like a kiss as payment for my kind attention. I’ve wondered for years, but now I want to know . ”
He removed his arm from her grasp, his skin tingling from brow to belly. A certain part of his body was awakening, ready to dive into amorous fun with a completely unsuitable playmate. “Showing you what’s what in this department isn’t my responsibility, imp.”
She snorted softly, repacking her satchel. “I grasp what’s what, Nigel Streeter. I’ll have you know I’ve been kissed five, count it, five times!” She scowled, securing the fastenings with a snap. “And at least two were adequate.”
“Adequate,” he murmured, impressed at the figurative wall she’d pressed his back against. What man could turn down the opportunity to be the best? At anything? Or, to douse the spark of jealousy by winning the race?
An emotion he shouldn’t be feeling, by the by. Not with her.
“Perfectly adequate,” she repeated and dropped her bag on the table by her chipped mug.
Damned if his father wasn’t right. She had one of her mother’s dogged expressions stamped on her face.
Frightening. “Forget it’s me. Try that. I could be the next in a long line of forgettables.
I’m only experimenting with someone safe.
It’s not a marital agreement. Goodness, Nigel, this is 1846, after all. ”
Safe . He blew out a hushed breath. Shook his head.
Balled his fist on the settee cushion to keep from reaching for her.
“Your eyes, I can’t forget those.” Or your lips.
Your breasts. Your trim waist. Long legs.
Round bottom. The quite gorgeous feet I saw last summer peeking from beneath your skirts. Your dazzling laugh .
What if she kissed him and released that delicious sound after?
Too, he had no clue what defined adequate .
“I can’t change my eye color, so…” She chewed on her bottom lip, leaving him dazed where he sat. “I’ll close them.”
And she did, leaning in, in the event he didn’t choose to gather her close.
Fuck . This was more than he could fight, wasn’t it? A gift like her presented to a man like him ?
One touch, one taste. What could that hurt?
Uncurling his fist, Nigel slid his palm along the brocade, the thready ripples tickling his skin. Her hand was there, delicate fingers spread for purchase, the nails round and healthy with color. It was nothing to cover it, link their fingers, and bring her swaying against his chest.
He realized at first touch that he’d made a mistake discounting this.
Discounting what she would do to him. Hadn’t he learned from the lovesick men in his family? One kiss… and boom .
The sound of wood in the hearth splintering was the last thing he heard as he tipped her chin and pressed his mouth to hers.
The nape of her neck was warm. Soft. Her body slender, yet strong.
His fingers cupped the back of her head, loosening her chignon as he cradled her.
She opened her lips without hesitation and from there…
things got hazy. Her tongue stroked his or his stroked hers.
He wasn’t sure who moved first. It was quick, the escalation.
Too fast to record. Perhaps because they knew each other so well in other arenas, in this one, they knocked down walls in seconds.
It was unlike any first kiss he’d ever had.
Her hand fisting in his shirt. Sliding to his shoulder, fingers knotting in his hair.
Guiding each other into the encounter. For better access, deeper penetration.
Her waist was shaped perfectly for his grip, where he scooted her until their hips bumped.
Lights flashed behind his lids as they clashed, control his, then hers, then his again.
When Arabella shakily rose to her knees and took his jaw in her hands to better align their mouths and their bodies, Nigel let her. Twisted to face her, in fact, to give her everything she asked for. The drumbeat in his ears canceled out the voice telling him this was taking a simple kiss too far .
Frankly, he’d experienced less intimacy with a woman’s legs looped over his shoulders.
Considering the acceleration, it seemed a solid next step to grasp her skirt and raise it until she could settle halfway on his lap, where they flowed like two cups of water poured into one vessel.
Lips and tongues and teeth. Hands seeking out hidden spots, ones that made her sigh and him moan.
Breaths catching, merging, flowing. His hand made its natural way to her pert bottom, tucking her in tight against him.
Heat. Sensation. Chests heaving. Murmurs of indistinguishable nature, meaningless in the assault.
His cock was hard as timber, no way to hide it, and when they began an awkward grinding dance, the kiss keeping fairly accurate rhythmic time—when he found himself reaching for the hooks at the back of her gown and thinking to himself the best way to climb atop her on the settee—he wrenched back, out of reach.
A man didn’t want a woman he feared, in no short measure, would make him breathless. Desire was one thing, love another.
He wasn’t getting near the latter.
The scent of jasmine and smoke and passion wrapped around his neck and squeezed until he felt light-headed. His shaft twitched in his trousers, begging for release.
She blinked woozily and grabbed the scrolled backrest of the settee, as if she’d gone through an entire bottle of her father’s whisky. Her eyes were the dark hue of gunmetal, and the ringing in his ears sounded as if she’d discharged the pistol by his head.
He moved her somewhat forcefully to her own cushion, then palmed his quivering belly.
This felt different . A kiss that slayed. He’d heard about those, the stuff of legend.
He’d simply never planned to chance upon one.