Chapter Seventeen
Nicolas hadn’t bothered to fully button his shirt, and his cuffs were rolled up, exposing thick veins cording muscular forearms. His hair was mussed, and scruff overtook his cheeks.
This ruffled, half-dressed man regarding Josie as if he were a ravenous wolf about to pounce was as titillating as the shirtless man with whom she’d sparred.
If only he would pounce. She wouldn’t mind in the least. She’d almost kissed him, after all. Twice. And truth be told, she wanted to kiss him now. More than she wanted to finish her sandwich, which was saying a lot, because she was famished and her sandwich was quite delicious.
“Mayhap,” he said, his deep baritone rumbling its way to the cleft between her thighs, “since we are both wide awake, we should start our lessons now.”
With those heavy-lidded eyes, he might not be talking about etiquette and peerage lessons. Hopefully, Nicolas Wentworth, the most handsome, desirable man in the world and heir to an earldom—a broke, disgraced earldom, but an earldom all the same—was about to give her lessons on desire.
Please. Oh, pretty please.
Nicolas stood. The tail of his shirt hung to his thighs, reminding her of how much she enjoyed watching his leg muscles flex beneath his trousers.
If only his clothing didn’t hide his form because she wished to see him naked from head to toe so that she could study his physique like one might regard a statue.
Currently, Nicolas appeared stunningly confident. Her feminine desires roared to life. How had she ever seen him as anything but powerful and commanding?
“Remember, you must wait to be introduced to someone you have not met before. When you first meet a gentleman or a lady older than you, or a person of higher rank, you must bow ever-so-slightly with a gentle dip at the shoulder. And a gentleman greets a lady with a modest bow from the waist.”
Josie already knew this, but with his gaze heating her secret female places, he had her full attention.
“He should not exaggerate his bow. It should be quite subtle. Like this.” Nicolas leaned forward. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Martin.”
The open collar of his shirt afforded her a view of hair dusting chiseled pectorals. She swallowed. Hard.
“What is your proper response?” he asked.
Shoving her hands into his shirt to scrape her fingers through that hair was most assuredly not the proper response.
However, Josie had practiced greetings until they were second nature, and Nicolas knew this, so what was he up to?
Barely able to breathe with the need zinging through her, she stood and performed her ladylike dip.
“Excellent,” Nicolas said.
She preened. Why was his approval over something she already knew how to do making her blush and flutter her lashes?
Nicolas stepped closer and grasped her hand.
Could one faint from exhilaration?
“A lady should never offer her hand on the first introduction. However, after this, she may offer a man her hand. But tread carefully. Once you do this, you are openly declaring your intention to court a man.”
But she had not offered Nicolas her hand. He had grabbed it and was currently warming it in his large, masculine palm.
“For a gently bred lady, even shaking a gentleman’s hand can be seen as being overly familiar.” His throaty words skimmed across her cheek. “This is an example of something you might do that is considered too friendly.” His fingertips skimmed over her palm.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she shivered.
“Lingering touches such as this are quite inappropriate.” He turned her hand over and gently caressed her knuckles, taking care to trace each motley bruise.
Was she about to be shown an example of everything a lady and a gentleman should not do? Hopefully so, since the naughty prospect thrilled her.
“Overly passionate hand kisses in public could become the subject of gossip.” With his gaze glued to hers, he pressed his lips to each knuckle.
Then, it was a good thing they were not in public because her hands were her livelihood, and they deserved some tender loving care.
His lips hovered over her wrist, and his heady breath blew across her knuckles. “A lady should withdraw her hand from an overly enthusiastic gentleman with an emphatic air of disapproval.”
Her quivering legs and rapid breathing made it difficult to think. Was he telling her to pull her hand away? Because she didn’t want to break contact. Somehow, she conjured her voice to shakily ask, “What should a lady do if she wants a gentleman to continue?”
He growled. “That is what I prayed you’d say.”
Dropping her hand, he pulled her so close that her aching breasts pressed against his torso. His intoxicating citrusy scent swathed her in a dream-like haze.
“Nicolas,” she whispered, mostly because she liked saying his name.
“Hmm?” He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear and stared into her eyes, burning a path straight to her soul.
“I’ve never been kissed,” she confessed.
His guttural groan sounded like desire.
“Well, on the lips,” she added, rambling on like a nervous ninny. “Because you just kissed my hand. Which I rather…”
Lowering his head, he slanted his mouth over hers, capturing the rest of her response. She stiffened for a moment but instantly relaxed into his embrace as his soft lips coaxed mewling sounds of pleasure from her.
Holy bollocks! Nicolas Wentworth was kissing her. Honest to God, mouth on her mouth, kissing her, and he tasted like sweet cream.
Luckily, he didn’t seem to care that she tasted like a sandwich because he pulled her closer and trailed kisses over her lips.
He also didn’t seem to mind that she had no idea what she was doing as she awkwardly imitated him.
He, in fact, seemed to like what she was doing because his arousal made itself known, pressing into her hip.
His hands roamed up and down her back, soothing years of tight, overly trained muscles and leaving her a pile of moldable mushiness.
He broke from the kiss to pant out, “God above, Josephine.”
Although she favored his labored breathing and gravelly words, she needed him to continue kissing her.
She threaded her fingers through his hair and tugged until his lips were again on hers.
She continued yanking until he was devouring her with such ferocity, they were like wild animals mauling one another.
She moaned, and his tongue slid into her mouth.
Holy bollocks. His tongue was in her mouth! Her feminine folds dampened at the sensation of hot velvet exploring. She followed his lead, and soon, their tongues swirled and danced together, creating a brewing storm.
As the tempest built, their tongues fought for dominance. Teeth nipping, tongues licking, hands grasping, he backed her up until she bumped into something. He grabbed her around her waist and lifted her off the ground like she was as light as a feather.
None too gentle, he placed her on the large empty table in the center of the room. Still kissing him with unbridled passion, she slid her bum to the edge of the table and wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him closer.
The most scandalous, wonderful thought hit her. If she hadn’t had on a nightdress, and he slid out of his trousers, her cunny would be pressed against his hard bulge. More liquid dripped between her thighs. Oh, she was sinful, which was rather an interesting discovery.
While Nicolas trailed kisses over her cheek and down her neck, she licked his chiseled jawline. Both salty and citrusy, Nicolas Wentworth tasted better than any sandwich or biscuit she’d ever eaten.
Nibbles in the hollow of her neck distracted her from her explorations. She closed her eyes and gave into the sheer bliss of the hands and mouth making love to her neck and shoulders.
His breathing grew more ragged, and his touch more insistent. Josie’s world became a confusing blur. Thought abandoned her. All she could do was feel. Strong fingers gripping her waist. A thousand textured kisses peppering her neck. His steely manhood rubbing against her knee.
She needed more. Of what, she didn’t know, but the ache would destroy her if she didn’t get whatever it was, and she suspected that it might involve him filling the emptiness in her core.
“Please, Nicolas,” she begged, not entirely sure what she was asking.
Her request broke the haze ensconcing them. Gasping for breath, he stepped back. His eyelids hung heavily over unfocused pupils.
After blinking a few times, he seemed to return from his stupor. “We must stop.”
But kissing was much like pugilism. Both were sweet sciences that required daily practice. She reached for him.
He caught her hands and squeezed. After all of this, why wasn’t he allowing her to touch him?
“Josie, you must return to your room.”
“But I need more kissing lessons,” she said, feeling quite proud that she’d made her needs known.
He groaned. “If we don’t stop right this second, you are going to get more than a kissing lesson.”
Something akin to a lightning bolt shot through her body.
He let go of her hands and backed up. Once he was a few feet away, he exhaled. “I will put the remaining food in the larder. You return to your chamber.”
Bloody friggin’ bull bollocks. She harrumphed. No man was going to tell her what to do.
“I am quite serious, Josephine Martin.” His tone broke no argument. “Do not think my mild manners will protect you from the beast you have awoken. He is ravenous and wild and not gentlemanly in the least.”
Was this a promise or a threat? A shiver wracked her spine.
Composing herself, she hopped off the table. “Fine, Meddlesome. You shall get your way tonight. But you have awoken a feral she-beast. Fair warning, she wants what she wants, and really and truly is not and never will be a simpering lady that you can shove away to suit your own needs.”
Shoulders back, she retrieved her candle, then strolled past the gawking lordling. She was fairly certain he grumbled an unseemly and uncharacteristic, “Fuck me.”
Also, certain that he did indeed want her, she grinned. Making Nicolas drop his priggish mask had just become her new reason for being.