Do You Want to Start a Scandal
Page 29Please touch me. You know what I need.
As they kissed, his fingers went to the buttons of her spencer, sliding them free one by one. At the same time, his other hand slid up her spine to find the hooks closing the back of her frock. She was being undone from both sides at once. This man had a great many skills indeed.
Her body sang with joy and anticipation of what was to come. Once he had the edges of her jacket parted, he slid his hand inside. His fingertips found the low, bosom-skimming border of her frock’s neckline. Pushing aside the gauzy fichu she wore for modesty, he pushed two fingers under the neckline and skimmed up to her shoulder, cleaving the loosened bodice from her body and then easing the sleeve down her shoulder, revealing her breast.
He broke the kiss, staring down at her bared breast. A twinge of modesty shivered through her, but it was lost in the rapid pounding of her pulse.
Upon contact with the crisp late-afternoon air, her nipple tightened. She felt as if a whole body’s worth of yearning had gathered in that single, aching point.
Please.
Please, please, please.
The first pass of his thumb was so light, so teasing. Almost like the brush of a feather. She could have believed she’d imagined it. He drew maddening circles around her ruched areola, tilting his head to examine her from a slightly different angle. As if she were a bit of clockwork and he was curious to see how she worked.
And then—finally—he covered her nipple with his thumb and pressed down. The jolt of pleasure zinged through her. She gasped. It was better; it was worse. It was wonderful.
He kissed her again, and as his tongue taught hers some new, sensual dance, he rolled and pinched the puckered nub between his thumb and forefinger.
She clung to him, digging her fingernails into the back of his neck. A low, throbbing pulse began to beat between her thighs. She shifted on his lap, pressing her thighs together in an attempt to ease it. And in the process, she rubbed against the solid, growing ridge of his erection.
He groaned softly into their kiss.
The taste and sound and feel of that guttural confession . . . it did something wild to her. It was honest, that moan. Elemental. Raw. There was an undeniable thrill to know she had such power over a powerful man.
She sat taller on his lap, teasing him with another slow drag of her hip against his hardness. She slid her hands into his hair, sifting her fingers through the dark, heavy locks and teasing them to wild angles. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and gave it a playful, puppyish tug.
“I haven’t forgotten your identity,” she whispered, still teasing her fingers through his hair. “Nor mine.”
He swallowed hard. His hands settled on her hips.
“You’re Piers Brandon, the Marquess of Granville, diplomat and secret agent in the Crown’s service.” She ran a fingertip down the noble slope of his nose. “And I’m Char—”
Her words were lost in a gasp.
With the speed and strength of a whip, he had her turned on her back, sprawled beneath him on the tufted carriage seat.
“You will be Lady Charlotte Brandon, the Marchioness of Granville, diplomat’s wife and mother of my heir.”
She started to argue back. Then his mouth closed over her nipple, and Charlotte lost all power of speech, all semblance of thought.
Along with them went any urge to resist.
“You’ll be mine,” he murmured. “I swear it, Charlotte. I will make you mine.”
Mine.
Mine, mine, mine.
The word tumbled in endless circles through his mind.
Piers licked a circle around her taut, dusky pink nipple.
He meant to show her just who was in control. Just whose secrets were bared.
He tugged at her clothing, desperate to reveal more of her body to his touch, and to his mouth. As he wrenched at her frock, he heard a slight rip of fabric. He froze, thinking the sound might frighten her, or at least bring her back to awareness.
Instead, she rolled onto her side to help him.
She helped him.
And once her frock was pushed down, revealing her sheer, simple undergarments, she welcomed him into her embrace, wrapping his shoulders in her soft, fragrant arms and arching her back to offer her breasts to him.
Her lips touched his bared neck.
When had his cravat come loose?
Good God. Good God.
He prided himself on control. Restraint. Careful management of both internal emotions and outward reactions. Lives had depended on it, and Piers had never let them down.
And then along came Miss Charlotte Highwood. Announcing her own entrance into his life with the most absurd of declarations.
I’m here to save you.
Impossible. She was the most dangerous person he’d ever encountered. His equilibrium was in constant turmoil whenever she was near.
She’d decoded the secret language of his left eyebrow.
In her.
God, the mere thought of being in her. Sinking into all that warm, willing softness . . .
The mental image had his cock hard as Italian marble, throbbing in vain against his buttoned trouser falls.
Piers forced himself to slow down, pushing aside the fragile muslin of her shift and exploring every inch of her bared, luscious breasts with his lips and tongue. Occasionally adding a light graze of teeth.
No matter how much he took, she only offered him more. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why.
He slid one hand to her waist and wedged his hips between her thighs, thrusting against the soft rustle of her bunched petticoats.
Soon, he promised himself. Not today. He wasn’t going to deflower Charlotte in a moving coach. That wasn’t the way he’d treat any woman, and most certainly not a woman he meant to marry. He hadn’t lost all semblance of restraint.
Besides, the journey back to Parkhurst Manor wasn’t long enough.
When he bedded her for the first time, he meant to take hours pleasuring her properly. Thoroughly. Until she sobbed his name and begged for more.
“We’re almost there.”
She gave him a sleepy, drugged look. “How do you know?”
“The road beneath us changed from mud to gravel.”
“Always so attentive to detail.” She smiled, with that adorably smug pride he’d come to recognize, and he knew he’d given himself away. Yet again.