Chapter 19 #3
Every sensible thought vanished. The kiss deepened.
Warmth swept through her. His hand slid from her cheek into her hair.
She felt utterly surrounded by him. Protected.
Claimed. The realization should have alarmed her.
Instead it made her heart ache. When she finally pulled back for air, Damien rested his forehead against hers.
“Sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, closing his eyes briefly.
The nickname sounded different now. More intimate. More possessive. She should have reminded him that he did not intend to marry her. She should have demanded answers. Instead she found herself leaning closer. Damien seemed unable to resist.
He captured her mouth again. His lips moved against hers with growing urgency. A soft sound escaped her before she could stop it. Damien froze. His eyes closed.
“God help me,” he muttered roughly, running a hand through his dark hair.
The words made her cheeks burn. She had never felt like this before, never wanted someone so much, never forgotten herself so completely. His hand brushed the bare skin of her cleavage where her gown had shifted, and the simple touch sent another rush of heat through her.
I should stop. This is madness.
But she did not, instead she found herself silently urging him to continue as she moaned.
She felt his hand slide over her breast, cupping it completely. His thumb grazed over her peak as it protruded through the fabric. Seraphine tilted her head back, allowing him more access to her. His kisses moved from her mouth to her neck, hungry with desire.
His mouth settled gently upon her neck. The touch was careful, almost questioning, giving her every opportunity to object. She did not. Instead she closed her eyes as his thumbs worked slowly across the peaks of her breast.
A quiet sigh escaped her before she could stop it, and she felt him pause.
"Too much?" he asked at once.
She shook her head gently. "No," she whispered. "Do not stop."
His hands resumed their measured rhythm, making her heated with desire. Then his hand slid lower and lower.
It stopped between her thighs.
"Oh," she whispered.
His touch pressed firmly through the fabric of her dress. Seraphine drew in a quiet breath, surprised by how good it felt. His kisses continued down her neck and over her cleavage.
Her heart fluttered. Her knees felt weak beneath her. She found herself shifting her feet wider as his hand circled her sacred mound.
She pressed her hands onto his shirt and pulled at it as the ecstasy inside of her built. An unfamiliar feeling low in her belly began to throb under his touch.
He should not be touching me like this, but I cannot stop him. I do not want to stop him.
His mouth found hers once more and kissed her deeply. She was lost in that kiss.
Then voices echoed from somewhere outside the storage room. They both froze. Someone was approaching. Several someones. Seraphine's eyes widened.
“Oh no,” she whispered, stepping back abruptly.
Damien immediately released her, the spell shattered, and panic took its place.
“Hide,” Seraphine hissed, glancing frantically around the room.
“Where?” Damien asked gesturing at the cramped storage room.
She looked around desperately. There was nowhere. The room contained crates, shelves, and a tiny window. No curtains. No closets. No hiding places.
“Oh dear,” she breathed.
Damien quickly fastened the top buttons of his shirt. Seraphine attempted to smooth her hair. She tugged at her bodice and straightened her gown as best she could. The door swung open.
Lord Whickham stepped inside. Lady Hannah Branson followed immediately behind him. They stopped dead. Silence descended. Lord Whickham's gaze moved from Damien, to Seraphine, back to Damien, then to Seraphine again. The man's eyes sparkled with wicked amusement.
Hannah’s eyes grew enormously. “Oh,” she squeaked, bringing a hand to her mouth.
“Oh indeed,” Lord Whickham said cheerfully, folding his arms.
Seraphine wished for the floor to swallow her whole. Her cheeks burned, and she could feel the heat creeping all the way to her ears.
Damien, meanwhile, looked infuriatingly calm, as though being discovered in such a way was no more troubling than being caught in the rain.
“Whickham,” he said coolly, inclining his head.
“Your Grace,” Lord Whickham replied with an increasingly broad grin.
His gaze shifted from Damien to Seraphine and back again, clearly taking in every disastrous detail of the scene.
“Lady Seraphine,” he added.
“Lord Whickham,” Seraphine managed weakly, attempting something resembling dignity.
The silence stretched. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Then Lord Whickham glanced towards the vase.
“Well,” he announced cheerfully, gesturing towards the prize, “I suppose we have found both the treasure and the reason nobody else could locate it.”
Hannah made a choking sound. Seraphine wanted to die immediately, preferably before Lord Whickham decided to continue speaking. Unfortunately, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes suggested he was just getting started.