Chapter Twelve
E ither Wesley grew impatient and moved in at the same time, or Boudicca overestimated the space between them. That or she was just destined to be bad at this whole kissing thing. She would never know the real reason for her first kiss being an unfortunate bumbling mess. But she was pretty sure that her chin chucked his lips and her nose gouged his eye. All the while his hands remained locked in place. A soft rumble reverberated from his chest, which, now that she thought about it, was lodged nicely against her bosoms. And now that she really thought about it, her nipples had tipped into peaks. And yes, that slight bit of friction against his chest was about to lead to her demise.
“Boudicca,”—he leaned his forehead against hers—“this is not a bout. There’s no attacking here.” His lips were practically grazing hers, they were so close. “May I?”
She nodded slowly, causing his head to follow her movements.
And then she had her real first kiss. Not a bump or a bunglement of orifices.
His lips gently swept hers at the corner of her mouth. “So soft,” he said. And her body responded by wilting.
She slid her hands to meet together at his chest. Her fingers ran through his chest hairs like velvet. And just like with the teasing fabric, she couldn’t leave it alone.
His lips were pressing against hers, parting. And he moaned, while bringing his body closer to hers. His hips. Closer to her center, covered only in one light layer of clothing.
“I’m very thankful for these trousers you’re wearing,” he growled into her ear.
And she could feel his thankfulness. And he felt very thankful. In fact, his significant thankfulness was grinding up against her cleft, and she felt herself growing quite…appreciative.
His lips, once soft and gentle, were growing more ravenous. They parted more and she gasped at his scent of mint. He pushed against her lips, letting himself into her mouth. His tongue swept in, teasing her. And she wanted him. She wanted to kiss the Adonis that he was, learning seduction from him the way he had been learning fencing from her. So she mimicked his movements until his groans saturated her.
Here she was, kissing the handsomest duke lauded by society. The woman, the spinster, who by all other gossip was on the shelf, not to be taken down again. Well, he had noticed her on the shelf for some inexplicable reason, and he had taken her down off of it to take a look at her. Who was she to deny herself the pleasure of being handled?
His hands gripped her thighs and pushed her up further against the wall. He stepped closer, in between her legs.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he whispered.
And it was the most natural thing in the world to do so. To grip him between her thighs. To hang onto him, and to feel him, through the few layers, rubbing against her core. The layers were so thin, she could feel him, base to tip, as she pressed herself along his arousal.
His fingers pressed into her quads and squeezed. His moan didn’t stop as his hands slid to massage her bottom. When one of his hands slid up to release her shirt from her trousers, the warm fingers against her skin shot through at a startling rate.
She tugged her lips free. “We have to stop.” Her head fell lightly against the wall. Eyes closed. Breath hard.
He pressed a kiss to her chest. “Yes, we do.”
She released her legs from his hips, and he stood back. He pulled on his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair.
He opened his mouth to say something.
“Don’t.”
“You don’t know what—”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t say anything. Don’t claim honor and ask me to marry you. And don’t say you weren’t going to do that. Even if you weren’t. I don’t want to know.”
And she really didn’t want to know. If he were an honorable gentleman, he would have asked her to marry him. Honor demanded it. But no one had witnessed their actions, so he could get away without asking her. But did she want to know that he was that kind of man? No. Right now she wanted to know if he was the kind of man to respect her wishes. Demands, really. And he owed her that much. And now she saw her opportunity to exploit the situation. If it was a sham—which it was—then it would be a damn good sham for her.
Her sisters had been wrong. She had shown herself to him, and he was still holding back. So be it. She could put her guards up again. It was easy. She literally trained nearly every day in putting her guards up. This would be no different. But if he was getting something out of this, besides the fencing lessons he hadn’t explicitly asked for, then—botheration!—she would get something out of this too. Damn it. And since she now knew what she could get, all that remained was to ask for it.
Ask and ye shall receive.
“All right…”
“This is what we’re going to do.” She placed her hands on her hips. “You want to continue these fencing lessons—”
“I wouldn’t call them lessons—”
Really, the man could be a bit obtuse. “What would you call it when a person meets privately with someone to study and mimic their expertise in a specific field with the objective of improving their own skills?”
“Observ—”
“Don’t.” She held up her hand. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence. We’ll continue your…lessons.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And because you owe me—”
“I owe you? For what?”
“For the lessons.”
He crossed his arms, clearly not having bought into the lessons business.
“And because you owe me”—she rushed to say—“for the lessons, you can give me some lessons of my own.”
“In what?”
“Seduction.”
*
An odd strangled chortle-like sound tumbled out of his mouth. “Seduc—Wha—I think not.” Folded arms should indicate his position on the matter. The kiss had been nice. His mind wouldn’t wrap around a more apt word at the moment. So nice , it was. Passionate, in fact. And maybe that was the reason he didn’t want it to happen again, but really…lessons in seduction? There was no way in hell that he was about to give the cursed gel some lessons in passion. It was an effrontery to his honor to even consider that. A person did not just engage in seduction lessons. It wasn’t done.
“Not seduction exactly. Mostly just…” she waved her fingers around. “Kissing.”
“I can’t give you kissing lessons, Boudicca.”
“And I can’t give you fencing lessons, Wesley.”
“You have been—”
“Exactly. And you just kissed me. Lessons will be the same as what we’ve both been doing.”
They would likely not be the same as what they had just done because Wesley had never given kissing lessons before, and if he were to think about giving lessons they would not be given so urgently. With so much desire. He stamped that thought down.
“Lessons in passion—”
“Not passion. Just kissing.”
“They’re one and the same.” Even he knew he was grasping at clouds, feeling lost in the argument.
“I don’t think so.”
“Since you’re the kissing aficionado, do explain.”
“Again. There’s no need to insult me. I’m perfectly aware of my amateur status in kissing.”
He wouldn’t have said amateur exactly. She was a quick study. A natural, really.
“I’m sure you have had a kiss without passion, no?”
“True.” He thought back to several experiences where there was no deeper connection than a kiss. More often than not, that kiss led nowhere and didn’t happen again.
“In the same way, I’m sure you have had passion without a kiss, no?”
He genuinely had to stop and think about that one.
“Wesley, really? Are you saying that every time you have felt passionately toward someone you have kissed them?”
“I dare say that is true.”
“You cannot be denied? Is that what you’re claiming?”
“Well, I’m certainly not saying I ever forced myself on anyone.” He glared at her. “I’ll return your turn of phrase: don’t insult me. I would never kiss a woman unless she also desired to kiss me.”
He saw a slight flush run up her neck. Odd, that.
“Regardless,” she said as she waved her finger in the air again, “passion and kissing are different. You can have one without the other. You agree.”
“Yes.”
“So teach me kissing without the passion.”
“I can’t do that.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even a stall tactic.
“Figure out a way, Wesley, or the fencing lessons and this ramshackle courtship are done.”
“Fine.” He wanted the lessons. He needed the lessons. He had to win. But which lessons and what precisely he had to win, he wasn’t sure.
He would find a way to forge on, even knowing he couldn’t shake the hunger that had erupted within him when he stole into her mouth and tasted her for the first time. He wanted to taste more of her. Perhaps all of her. But she was a gently bred young(ish) lady. He should have offered marriage, and really, that was the plan. That was the bet. He was here for the bet. But then he was here for the fencing. And apparently now he was here for the kissing.
He could feel his nostrils flaring. That was the only outward display of emotion he wanted to send her. And even that was too much. He couldn’t let on that she was right in accusing him of ulterior motives.
He should have offered marriage, but what if she had said yes? He needed her to say no. If he could somehow turn her plan on her head, and scare her away, she might say no to the kissing lessons as well. With that taste in her mouth, he could propose knowing that she would say no. And then they would both go on their merry way. Him having won his bet, and her…well, it didn’t matter, did it?
Something poked his chest. He looked down at her outstretched hand, an offer to shake on it.
“Do we have a deal?”
“No emotions. No conditions.” He watched as she nodded along. “You teach—show me some fencing maneuvers, and I’ll show you some…kissing.”
“Precisely.”
Feeling a decided lack of options, as well as a growing disdain for shaking hands on a deal, Wesley stuck out his hand, took hers, and shook. Hard. For extra measure.
“Fine. It’s a deal.”
And then almost as sweetly as he had first heard her voice on the night of the bumping ball, she said, “See you tomorrow then.”
“Yes.” See you. Fight you. Feel you. Kiss you. Just another normal day in a typical courtship.