“Won’t it?” He propped a single finger under her chin. “This did the trick before.”
He dipped his head, and his lips brushed hers.
Sparks. She could have sworn she saw them, swarming bright and orange. Pinprick heat branded her skin.
“What of this?” he asked. Another kiss. “Or this, perhaps.”
His mouth moved over hers, teasing her with a series of brief, bruising kisses. There was meaning behind those kisses, so commanding and firm. They were like little words in . . . in German, or Dutch. One of those languages she really ought to know, but had never taken the trouble to learn. And now she was left frustrated, uncertain how to respond. Were they accusations? Warnings? Desperate pleas for something more?
Whatever sort of argument they were having, she knew one thing.
She could not let him win.
She made herself tall, pressed back at his aggressive mouth with little kisses of her own. In both hands, she gathered great fistfuls of his warm lawn shirt, as if she could shake some sense into the impossible man. Or maybe just to keep from falling, as the dizzying sensations rocketed through her body. Exhilaration lifted her stomach and set her heart floating loose in her chest.
When the kisses ended, she met his gaze, rather proud of herself for not dissolving on the spot. Despite the complete upheaval of her senses, she tried to appear worldly and composed. As if this sort of thing happened to her regularly, in the course of normal interaction. As if she often stood toe-to-toe with an enormous, virile, unshaven man in a room full of explosives, feeling these lethal sparks of attraction fly around and between them. And her br**sts were just always grazing against a hard wall of muscled chest, her ni**les drawing to taut, needy peaks out of mundane habit. Completely expected, regularly scheduled arousal.
“Well?” he asked. “Have I made my point? Are you leaving now?”
“I’m so sorry to disappoint you,” she said, breathing hard. “But it would take far more than that to scare me.”
A quick flex of his arms, and their bodies collided. And he whispered, just as his mouth fell on hers, “God, I was hoping you’d say that.”
Eight
This kiss could be the end, Bram knew. He was foolishly, thoroughly kissing Miss Susanna Finch, clutching her slender body to his while he reveled in the faint currant spice of her lips, and this could be the end of everything. The end of all his plans, his military career. Perhaps the end of him, full stop.
And if that was the case, and he’d impulsively gambled his entire future on a forbidden kiss . . .
He might as well slow down and do the thing right.
He let his mouth linger over hers. She hadn’t been kissed much. At least, not properly. He could tell in the way she was struggling to respond. She was unschooled, but she showed great natural aptitude.
He cradled her neck in one hand. “Softly, love. Let me show you.”
He teased his lips over hers, brushing from bottom to top. Then again. And then once more, persuading her lips to part. She startled at the first touch of his tongue, but he held her tight until the instinct passed. And then he tasted her. The slow, sweet slide of his tongue against hers had him growling with satisfaction.
Yes, he told her without words. Yes. Again.
From their first meeting, he’d suspected this woman to be a temptress in a teapot, and she was proving him right with every tentative stroke of her tongue against his. Her inexperience only made the whole business sweeter. The way she clutched his shirt, chased his teasing tongue, slid her gloved finger along the edge of his unshaven jaw . . . She was inventing these small intimacies as she went, acting out of pure, untutored desire. These weren’t practiced motions, honed on other men.
They were only for him.
He deepened the kiss, keeping his rhythm steady and sure. Each time taking just a little more, delving just a fraction deeper. The same way he would make love to her.
No sooner had the thought surfaced in his mind, than he seized on it. He had to make love to her. Someday. Not today. Today, she was only learning to kiss. She wasn’t ready.
Bram, by contrast, was ready indeed. Ready, willing, and able. In a mindless, instinctive motion, he pulled her snug against his aching groin. If she could feel the abundant evidence of his arousal, she didn’t shy away. Her br**sts eased warm and soft against his chest as she leaned into the kiss.
Bending his head, he kissed her throat, her ear, losing himself in the scent of her. Her skin smelled of herbs, and she tasted . . . like a memory. A memory of a long-ago summer’s day. Warm sun. Cool, crisp water. Tall grass and a gentle breeze. Everything good and real and fresh. Even her name was a whimsical song.
“Susanna,” he whispered against her ear.
She sighed in his arms, as though she loved the sound of her name on his lips.
So he said it again, murmuring that light, stubborn melody. “Susanna. Susanna fair.” He nuzzled her earlobe, then drew it between his lips, suckling the delicate bud. Her little gasp stoked his desire.
She made him want so much. Too much. Damn, she made him yearn.
He kissed her again, taking time to savor each of her plump, lush lips before thrusting his tongue between them. This time, he delved deeper, took more. She made a mewling noise in the back of her throat, less a whimper than an erotic demand. There was urgency in her kiss now, and sweet frustration. He could taste how much she craved his touch, and the knowledge made him wild.
All this from a few simple kisses, with both of them fully clothed. Good Lord. He ran one hand down her arm and plucked at the topmost closure of her glove. They drove him mad with desire, these prim satin sheaths, with their endless stretches of buttons and arrow-straight seams. As matters stood, she could barely contain all that natural passion. What would happen when the gloves came off?
He loosed the top button with a flick of his thumb.
“Lord Rycliff,” she said hoarsely.
“Bram,” he corrected, undoing another. “After a kiss like that, you must call me Bram.”
“Bram, please . . .”
“With pleasure.” He kissed her lips again, sliding his fingers beneath the unbuttoned satin.
Her hands slid to his chest, and she pushed, hard.
“Lord Rycliff. Please.”
The desperate catch in her voice surprised him. He glanced down to find her wearing an expression of distress, her bottom lip quivering. Her eyes were downcast.
Bram immediately found himself missing them. If he’d spent so much time thinking of her eyes, it must be because in their every interaction, she’d met his gaze directly. Unapologetic and undaunted. Until now.