Chapter 10 #2
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 the clear truth that he was a scoundrel devoted to a life of carnality.
“First,” he murmured, his voice now no more than a whisper between them, “there is the kiss of comfort.”
Sebastain 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—and it seemed to wrap about her senses, drawing her in.
Heat gathered between them, close enough now that she could feel it against her skin, could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.
Her heart began to pound—hard, 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 she could not name. Something that made her pulse quicken and her thoughts scatter.
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 press, warm and steady, without demand or hunger.
Darcy’s eyes fluttered closed. It was… gentle.
So gentle it stole the air from her lungs, bringing a tightness to her throat and an ache behind her closed lids.
There was no urgency, no consuming heat, only a soft warmth.
A strange, soothing closeness that made something deep within her chest both ache and ease all 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.
When he drew back, it was only a fraction.
“You see,” he murmured, his breath grazing her lips, “that is not meant to take… only to give.”
Darcy’s fingers curled faintly at her sides. “I…” She swallowed. “I felt…”
“I know.” 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.
Not quite pressing, not quite retreating.
A brush. Then another. A teasing glide of his tongue against her bottom lip.
He did it again. Darcy inhaled sharply as his mouth moved against hers—slow, exploring.
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 just slightly—just enough to hold, to coax—a soft, startled sound escaped her.
“That,” he murmured against her mouth, “is where longing begins.”
Another low sound escaped her, and he swallowed it. Darcy swayed. Her hand lifted without her permission, coming to rest uncertainly against his chest. She could feel the solid strength of him beneath her palm. The steady beat of his heart.
It grounded her and unmoored her all at once.
“And now…” His voice dropped further, roughened by something she could not name. “The kiss your painting lacks.”
Her breath caught.
“Passion.”
She ought to have stopped him. Ought to have 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, nor with any lingering restraint, but with heat, with hunger, with 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—not roughly, yet with an unmistakable firmness—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 without thought, without hesitation, as though guided by instinct alone.
A soft, broken sound escaped her as sensation flooded through her—warm, consuming, impossible to resist. When his tongue touched hers, she moaned, the sound torn from her before she could even attempt to suppress it.
Her fingers tightened in his coat, clutching at him as though he were the only thing anchoring her.
Then, without conscious intent, her other hand lifted, sliding upward until it found the back of his neck, her fingers threading into his hair as she held fast, clinging as though 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, devastatingly real.
By the time he drew back, she was breathless and unsteady, her strength seeming to have 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 strangely unmoored.
“I…” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed, gathering what fragile composure she could. “I must go.”
She could not look at him. She did not trust herself to do so—not when she could scarcely comprehend what had just passed between them, nor how something so fleeting could leave her feeling so entirely undone.
“Miss Red—”
“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 at last, his tone altered, the earlier edge of provocation softened into something quieter, more considerate. “Allow me to 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 for my conveyance… and for 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.
Darcy inclined her head, though she still could not meet his gaze. “I thank you, my lord… for your—” Her voice caught, and she faltered, the word she sought feeling wholly insufficient. “—for your assistance.”
Before he could answer, before her resolve could falter, she turned and quit the room with more haste than dignity.