Chapter 10 #2
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped her. “I would not presume any sort of friendship between us, my lord.”
“That is only because,” he said, his gaze lingering upon her mouth, “you are wholly unacquainted with the wicked satisfaction that may exist between friends.”
His thumb shifted ever so slightly against her skin, a subtle reminder of his touch against her flesh.
“Particularly,” he added, more softly still, “the kissing sort.”
Sebastian.
His name moved quietly through her mind, though she did not dare speak it aloud. Darcy was bemused by the way he made her feel, as though she longed to know him in every particular despite knowing he was a scoundrel devoted to carnality.
“First,” he murmured, his voice now no more than a whisper between them, “there is the kiss of comfort.”
Sebastian did not rush her. He did not claim her mouth at once.
Instead, he bent slowly, granting her every opportunity to turn away.
A tremor moved through Darcy, sharp and undeniable.
She caught the faint, intoxicating scent of him, something warm and masculine, touched with spice and night.
It seemed to wrap about her senses, drawing her in.
Heat gathered between them, close enough now that Darcy could feel it against her skin, could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.
Her heart began to pound, hard and insistent, until she was certain he must hear it
Yet she did not move. Anticipation coiled low in her belly, tight and unfamiliar, threaded with something that quickened her pulse and scattered her thoughts.
Darcy waited. Her breath trembled over parted lips as she lifted her face the slightest fraction, caught between hesitation and a quiet, undeniable wanting. His lips touched hers softly, barely more than a breath, a quiet and steady press without demand or hunger.
Darcy’s eyes fluttered closed, startled by the tenderness of the gesture.
Such unexpected gentleness stole the air from her lungs, tightening her throat and bringing a sudden ache behind her closed lids.
There was no urgency or consuming heat, only a soft warmth and a strange, soothing closeness that made something deep within her chest ache and ease at once.
It felt as though every worry, every fear she had carried these past years, was gently lifted, replaced by the fragile illusion of warmth and safety in the soft press of his mouth against hers.
How dangerous you are, Lord Raine.
When he drew back, it was only a fraction.
“You see,” he murmured, his breath grazing her lips, “that kiss is not meant to take, only to give.”
Darcy’s fingers curled faintly at her sides. “I felt safe,” she whispered, astonished by the admission.
“That is its purpose.” His hand did not leave her face. “This,” he continued, his tone deepening slightly, “is the kiss of discovery. The first whisper of desire. Part your lips for me.”
This time, when he leaned in, his lips lingered.
He neither pressed nor retreated, offering one teasing brush and then another before gliding his tongue against her bottom lip.
He repeated the caress. Darcy inhaled sharply as his mouth moved against hers—slowly, exploring and testing.
As if acquainting himself with the shape of her lips, the softness of them.
Darcy’s heart began to race. Something unfamiliar unfurled within her, tentative yet insistent.
Heat pooled low in her belly. When his lower lip caught hers, only enough to hold and coax, a soft, startled sound escaped her.
“This,” he murmured against her mouth, “is where longing begins.”
Another low sound escaped her, and he swallowed it. Darcy swayed as her hand lifted without permission and came to rest uncertainly against his chest. Beneath her palm, she felt his solid strength and the steady beat of his heart.
The contact grounded her even as the kiss unmoored her.
“And now,” he said, his voice dropping, “the kiss your painting lacks. Passion.”
Her breath caught at the promise in his voice.
The word settled between them like a spark upon tinder.
She ought to have stopped him and stepped away while she still possessed her senses.
Instead, she lifted her face, only slightly, yet enough to offer a silent invitation he did not hesitate to accept.
His mouth claimed hers, not with the earlier gentleness or any lingering restraint, but with heat, hunger, and a slow, deliberate intensity that unraveled every careful thought she had ever possessed.
His hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, holding her there with unmistakable firmness but no roughness as his lips moved over hers with devastating purpose.
Darcy gasped against him as the kiss deepened, her senses overwhelmed by the sheer force of it, by the way it seemed to consume her from within.
He did not rush, and that was what undid her most.
He took his time, coaxing, pressing, drawing from her a response she did not know she possessed.
When his mouth parted hers, she yielded as though guided by instinct alone.
A soft, broken sound escaped Darcy as sensation flooded through her, warm, consuming, and impossible to resist. When his tongue touched hers, she moaned, the sound torn from her before she could suppress it.
Her fingers tightened in his coat, clutching at him as though he were the only thing anchoring her. Without conscious intent, her other hand slid upward to the back of his neck, her fingers threading into his hair as she held fast, certain she might otherwise come undone.
And she kissed him back.
Not with skill, nor with any practiced knowledge, but with something raw and instinctive, something that rose from deep within her and answered him in kind. It was unguarded, unrefined, and utterly devastating in its reality.
By the time he drew back, she was breathless and unsteady, her strength having deserted her entirely. She leaned into him, her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder, her fingers still curled at his nape as though she feared she might fall if she let go.
Her breath came unevenly, her pulse still racing as though it had yet to accept that the moment had ended.
Slowly, too slowly, Darcy lifted her head from where it had rested against him. The loss of his warmth was immediate and disquieting, as though something steady and vital had been withdrawn, leaving her abruptly bereft.
“I must go,” she whispered, swallowing as she gathered what fragile composure she could.
Darcy could not look at him. She did not trust herself to do so when she could scarcely comprehend what had just passed between them, nor how something so fleeting could leave her feeling so entirely shaken.
She took several steps backward before turning away, determined to retreat at a measured pace rather than betray the almost overwhelming urge to flee.
She wanted him to believe her unflappable, entirely untouched by what had passed between them, and not glimpse the truth still betrayed by the frantic pounding of her heart or the lingering heat and ache in her body that shamefully yearned for more.
“Red, wait.”
Darcy faltered and turned to him, temptation beating through her in fierce, insistent waves. “I must go,” she repeated, more firmly, though a tremor still lingered beneath her words.
A brief silence followed.
“I will have my carriage brought round,” he said, the earlier provocation softened into something quieter and more considerate. “Let me see you safely home.”
Alarm stirred at once, sharp and unyielding.
“No,” she said quickly, the refusal escaping before she could temper it. Drawing in a steadying breath, she forced calm into her tone. “No, my lord, that will not be necessary. Madam Rebecca has already arranged my conveyance and protection. I shall be quite safe.”
The silence that followed seemed to linger, weighed with something she could neither name nor face.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I will not press you.”
Darcy inclined her head, though she still could not meet his gaze. “I thank you, my lord, for the lesson,” she managed, though the words felt wholly inadequate.
Before he could answer or her resolve could falter, she turned and fled the room with more haste than dignity, the taste of him still warm upon her lips.