Chapter Twenty #2
His half-lidded eyes widened. “’Tis’ my pleasure.” He slid his thumbs to her mouth and caressed her lips, as if trying to coax more words from them.
She could do this; she could ask for what she wanted, even if it was a whisper. “Can we kiss now and talk later?”
“Hell, yes!” His lips crashed against hers, and his body weight pinned her to the back of the settee.
How fortunate that she’d donned the low-cut, purple dress that exposed her skin because having her ear and neck tended to stoked a fire in her core.
Lowering his head, he skimmed his mouth above the satin trim lining her decolletage.
Unable to assuage the ache consuming her, she rubbed against him as if she were a kitten desperate for scratches.
His breathing became labored, and his arousal pressed into her belly. The pulse between her thighs quickened.
Without warning, he tore his mouth from hers. “We need to stop,” he said while teetering on the edge of the seat.
How unfair. She didn’t want to stop, but since he looked as though he would leap from the settee if she reached for him, he wasn’t giving her much choice.
“Why?” she asked her words coming easier. “Truly, you don’t have to treat me as if I am made of porcelain.” Maybe when they’d first met, but not anymore.
His beautiful green eyes turned into smoldering flames, and his nostrils flared as if she’d awoken his demon. A well-bred lady should guard her innocence and flee, but Genevieve had invited Jonathan—no, begged Jonathan—to come out and play, and there was no way she’d run away now.
“Because, Gen, I want to do indecent things to you.”
Perfect. Because she wanted him to do indecent things to her. “Like what?” she asked, longing to revel in naughtiness and proud that her voice was less raspy.
His growl raised the hair on the back of her neck and sent a line of pleasurable gooseflesh across her shoulders.
“Gen,” he said, his voice deadly serious. “Would I be your first?”
She suspected he was asking if she was a virgin.
“Yes,” she said, since he was her first everything.
Cradling his cheeks, she stared into his eyes, silently giving him her heart and soul.
“I trust you. I think this is why I can finally talk to you, and make no mistake, I want those things too.” Kissing, and touching, and exploring, and maybe his penis deep inside her—Yes, please.
“Trust.” He frowned. “I see.” Grasping her hands, he settled them on her lap as if her touch stung. “I don’t think you understand what these indecent things entail.”
Perhaps she didn’t entirely understand everything, since he had worldly experiences with temptresses and seductresses, and she was embarrassingly sheltered. But it did not mean she couldn’t learn.
“Then tell me,” she said, both sounding and feeling rather desperate. “Or show me. I am ready.”
He combed his fingers through his already mussed hair, giving him the look of a man caught in a wicked windstorm. Apropos perhaps, even if said storm seemed to be a tornado of his own emotions.
“Gen, please go to your room and lock the door.”
Why was he punishing her? “Did I do something wrong?”
“Darling, you have done everything right.” He lowered his gaze to the bulge in his trousers. “I don’t think I can control myself for much longer. I’m protecting your innocence from my debauchery.”
Oh, my!
“I don’t want your first time to be in the drawing room with a randy fuck who lasts less than five seconds.”
As long as he was the “randy fuck,” she was beyond fine with it. She lunged, her lips reaching for his.
He grasped her shoulders, halting her attack. “Gen, you mean more to me than a quick toss where anyone can walk in on us. Let me be deserving of your trust.”
As much as she wanted him right this second, she needed him to think the moment was perfect, too. Resigning herself to his request, she stood and stepped away at the same time that Lady Davenport swept into the room.
“I had the most wonderful planning session with Helena,” the dowager viscountess declared, plopping into the spot Genevieve had just vacated. “Wait until I tell you all about it.”
“For Puck’s sake, Mother,” Jonathan grumbled while shifting as if uncomfortable. “Again, with this ridiculous idea.”
Lady Davenport tsked. “So grumpy these days. You never used to be this disagreeable. There was a time when you would have thought a competition involving ladies quite enjoyable.”
Genevieve agreed with Jonathan. Although humorous, the contest sounded like an absurd way to choose a wife. Poor, unfortunate Tristan Keats. Although he could take heart that it wasn’t nearly as demeaning as being lost to an unpleasant reprobate in a card game.
Since it would be rude to walk away, Genevieve settled into the chair Jonathan usually sat in, folded her hands in her lap, and listened as Agatha Davenport chattered. Frowning, Jonathan crossed one leg over his lap—more than likely hiding what lay beneath his trousers.
It was only later, when Genevieve was tossing and turning in bed, that she understood the significance of her encounter in the drawing room.
Jonathan Davenport might not understand his emotions, but she suspected he was falling in love with her.
And a good thing too, because she had fallen completely and totally in love with him.