Society's Most Scandalous Viscount. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
against the soft underside of her breasts. His muscles tensed. A rush of heat flooded his veins and his cock grew hard. Without thought, he pulled her against his length, relishing her gasp. Her lips parted, stunned by the strong demand of his desire and he used her subtle surprise as his entry to taste. His tongue found hers—timid at first, so he rubbed and twined in an invitation to pleasure. She hesitated, one heartbeat, two, before she acquiesced and the leash on his desire snapped. He licked across her bottom lip before his tongue plunged inside her hot wet mouth, sliding with sensual friction against her tongue, boldly meeting his stroke with one of her own.
This was fragile bliss. That rare phenomenon believed only by the foolish or otherwise affirmed. Kismet: he’d heard it whispered in Arabia, a force beyond anyone’s control, an enlightenment elusive and precious, unlike anything he’d experienced in his jaded twenty-nine years.
He slid his hands down her arms and across her ribs to lock her closer. His mouth broke free to allow a singular chance to object, the thought of stopping an aching impossibility. Instead her head tipped back in surrender, exposing a tender length of neck inviting his attention, her skin smooth as expensive silk. He didn’t refuse and traced kisses across her jaw, nipping her chin in his hurry to her nape. Her breath rushed out and he inhaled her scent, his lips hot against the pulse below her ear.
He was caught in some unfathomable spell, all equilibrium lost, and simultaneously driven to continue. One word pounded relentlessly in his brain. More. More. More. But she hadn’t asked for more. Hadn’t offered. He’d be every kind of libertine society believed if he pressed the lady. If he ground his groin against her sweet curves or fondled her lush bosom…if he lowered her neckline and rubbed his thumb across her tight nipples…if he flicked his tongue there next.
What the hell was wrong with him? What happened to his control?
He jerked back as if knifed in the heart, the motion enough to jar loose the peculiar sensation in his brain, similar to a muted joy or otherworldly effect experienced as one fell into a dream. He was a man of vast life experience. He’d never been caught so off guard or unprotected.
He searched the lady’s face for any sign she’d encountered the same. Her slim brows were pulled together in a troubled vee—a reflection of the curious stunned silence stretched between them. Yet his pulse, and worse, his raging erection, ceased to calm and he turned toward the hearth to prod at the burning wood and present a façade of necessary fire tending.
God’s teeth, he should leave, ride straight to a brothel and cure this irrational reaction. The idea provoked humor more than rational thought. In Brighton, he knew little relief other than the most hospitable serving miss at the local town tavern. And that was more habit than anything else.
Perhaps upon morning he’d summon one of his mistresses to visit. Damn Bitters for complaining about his company and damn himself for taking heed. Inhaling deeply and exhaling in measure, he willed his body to relax, the turnaround fueled more by anger and frustration than unrelenting desire. He stood, smoothing his palms down the legs of his breeches, fully aware he remained with his back to the lady, but the action served a dual purpose. No doubt, she needed a few composing moments to recover her dignity in kind.
Aiming for sangfroid, he pivoted; a practiced smile in place, but the room stood empty, the door slightly ajar. His grin dropped away. It mattered little how long he’d bent near the fire trying to order his thoughts and begging his body to calm. The lady had disappeared as if she’d never existed.
A hearty chuckle forced his shock to fade. Had he met his match—a mermaid who possessed the elusive cunning of a pirating rogue? She’d slipped from his grasp, yet confidence assured him the situation remained temporary. Their meeting again was as inevitable as the ocean and sky married on the horizon.
Angelica woke the next morning, swiftly left bed, and padded to the washstand to splash cold water on her face. It was a dream, most certainly. She hadn’t kissed a devastatingly handsome man, composed of solid muscle and irresistible charm. She hadn’t allowed his arms to wrap around her nor had she nestled closer to his very hard body. She gasped and sputtered, water trickling into her mouth to bring with it a rush of similar circumstance, the rain pebbling her face last night, her heartbeat thrumming an erratic rhythm in kind to her fists against his back as he carried her across the beach. Surely, it was a dream. Otherwise the truth that she’d allowed a stranger to fondle her, kiss her, to rub his tongue against her—
She grabbed the towel from the stand and pressed it to her face with fierce pressure, biting into the linen as if to prove she was awake, alive, and in clear reason. She dropped the cloth soon after, discarding it to the floor without a care, and shot her chin upward to view her reflection in the oval cheval glass hanging on the wall.
She looked much as she always did. She leaned the slightest bit closer. Nothing appeared amiss, aside from faint violet shadows under her eyes, evidence of lack of sleep and reckless midnight jaunts. She bent to retrieve the towel, ordering the room as she would order her thoughts, and her gaze fell to her day gown crumpled in a heap near the corner of the bed. Lifting the garment by the shoulders, she held it at arm’s length, her scrutiny honed to the collar where only one crimson ribbon dangled, the other sliced clean.
A disquieting flutter echoed within her stomach. She’d known all along last night had been real, but here was proof she couldn’t deny, confirmation of her wanton adventure. After hanging the gown on a wall hook, she perched on the corner of the mattress, her arm wrapped around the thick bedpost as if it were a supportive friend. Her temple rested against the wood. She closed her eyes and summoned the memory that had carried her into sleep the night before.
She had promised herself an adventure and she’d found one on the beach. The pirate’s kiss had been nothing she’d expected and something she’d never forget, and it lived within her still. Oh, she’d fled the groundskeeper’s cottage thinking to abandon the consuming heat of passion found in the pirate’s arms, but running had not extinguished the incredible pleasure and overflow of emotion. The kiss ruined her for any future her father had planned, but that was the point wasn’t it? To capture a moment and cherish a memory. She hadn’t intended to permit the tall stranger such intimacy, but wrapped tight in an unexplainable nuance of circumstance, she’d allowed it and didn’t regret it now.
With a long sigh, she smiled and rose to ready for the day. What time was it anyway? Sunlight danced through the narrow gap of the drapery. The single window allowed an abundance of light only to have the curtains confine and narrow the offering. An apt example of before and after, a glaring reminder that soon her life would change.
She glanced to the small clock on her three-drawer chest and noted it was almost noon. Good heavens, she’d become a slugabed. It didn’t matter she’d returned home in the wee hours, hurrying down the length of beach and up the short trail to her grandmother’s cottage. She’d only stumbled twice in the dark as she brought herself home, safe if one could consider her conflicted heart and mind of that category.
Thank God no one had discovered her late-night strolls. Grandmother would never excuse blatant careless behavior, no matter that they shared the same impish spirit. This crossed the line. Adventurous or not, she’d be concerned for her granddaughter’s safety, and how could Angelica argue with sound reasoning? Her father? Well that didn’t bear exploring. He’d have her shipped to a convent before she could gather her slippers and bonnet. Banishment. The word brought with it a rush of definition.
Dressed and prepared to fabricate an excuse for sleeping late, Angelica left her bedchamber and went downstairs to find the cottage empty. The only activity was the dust motes afloat in a ray of light through the kitchen window—neither Grandmother nor Nan inside.
She selected a plum from the wooden bowl on the table and bit into the fruit before moving to the window to peer into the backyard. Perhaps Grandmother and Nan worked with their plants. The day seemed fine for gardening tasks. She chewed and swallowed thoughtfully as she considered the explanation.
With surprise she spied