Part 12 (2/2)
But she'd worked herself up into a fine temper. ”Of course you did. You kissed me last night only to make a point, and you couldn't even bear to kiss me properly again today-”
”Now see here,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. ”I didn't kiss you 'properly' today because I was afraid if I did I might not stop.”
That seemed to draw her up short. ”Wh-What?”
Sweet G.o.d, he shouldn't have said that, but he couldn't let her go on thinking she was some sort of pariah around men. ”I knew that if I got this close, and I put my mouth on yours...”
But now he was this close. And she was staring up at him with that mix of bewilderment and hurt pride, and he couldn't help himself. Not anymore.
He kissed her, to show her what she seemed blind to. That he wanted her. That even knowing it was wrong and could never work, he wanted to have her.
She tore her lips from his. ”Mr. Pinter-” she began in a whisper.
”Jackson,” he growled. ”Let me hear you say my name.”
Backing away from him, she cast him a wounded expression. ”Y-you don't have to pretend-”
”I'm not pretending anything, d.a.m.n it!”
Grabbing her by the sleeves, he dragged her close and kissed her again, with even more heat. How could she not see that he ached to take her? How could she not know what a temptation she was? Her lips intoxicated him, made him light-headed. Made him reckless enough to kiss her so impudently that any other woman of her rank would be insulted.
When she pulled away a second time, he expected her to slap him. But all she did was utter a feeble protest. ”Please, Mr. Pinter-”
”Jackson,” he ordered in a low, unsteady voice, emboldened by the melting look in her eyes. ”Say my Christian name.”
Her lush dark lashes lowered as a blush stained her cheeks. ”Jackson...”
His breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of it, and fire exploded in his brain. She wasn't pus.h.i.+ng him away, so to h.e.l.l with trying to be a gentleman.
He took her mouth savagely this time, plundering every part of its silky warmth as his blood pulsed high in his veins. She tasted of red wine and lemon cake, both tart and sweet at once. He wanted to eat her up. He wanted to take her, right here in this room.
So when she pulled out of his arms to back away, he stalked after her.
She didn't stop backing away, but neither did she turn tail and run. ”Last night you claimed this wouldn't happen again.”
”I know. And yet it has.” Like someone in an opium den, he'd been craving her for months. And now that he'd suddenly had a taste of the very thing he craved, he had to have more.
When she came up against the writing table, he caught her about the waist. She turned her head away before he could kiss her, so he settled for burying his face in her neck to nuzzle the tender throat he'd been coveting.
With a s.h.i.+ver, she slid her hands up his chest. ”Why are you doing this?”
”Because I want you,” he admitted, d.a.m.ning himself. ”Because I've always wanted you.”
Then he covered her mouth with his once more.
Chapter Ten.
Celia's head was reeling. He wanted her? Mr. Pinter wanted her?
Not Mr. Pinter. Jackson. Jackson.
She released a shuddering breath as he trailed kisses from her mouth to her ear, his breathing heavy and his heart racing beneath the hands she pressed against his chest.
He did want her. He was devouring her, dragging open-mouthed kisses along her neck and throat like a man starved. He still smelled of saltpeter and smoke-as masculine and earthy as the rasp of his faint whiskers against her skin. Desire welled up in her when he tongued the hollow of her throat.
She'd never experienced kisses and caresses like these before, tender and searing all at the same time. She was drowning in every one.
”Jackson...” she whispered.
”I love to hear my name on your lips,” he rasped against her ear. ”Say it again.”
”Jackson ... this isn't another lesson ... is it?” She had to know. She had to be sure.
”It ought to be,” he growled. ”G.o.d knows you didn't learn the first one very well, or we wouldn't be here together, alone.”
When he lifted her onto the table, knocking off some of the books, she gasped. ”I've never been good with lessons.”
He brushed a kiss over her lips. ”Perhaps you haven't had the right teacher. Or the right lessons, my lady.”
”Celia,” she countered, burying her hands in his thick, raven hair. He had the most beautiful hair, soft to the touch, with lovely waves that spilled wantonly over her fingers. ”If I'm to call you Jackson, you must call me Celia.”
His eyes turned molten gray as they locked with hers. ”Celia,” he breathed. Then he brought his hands up to flick open the b.u.t.tons of her redingote and pull out her lace tucker so he could toss it aside.
She caught her breath. ”Wha-What are you doing?”
”Continuing your lessons.” He spread open her redingote gown to expose her undergarments. ”I want to taste you. Will you let me, sweeting?”
Sweeting? That alone would have softened her resolve, for no man had ever called her such a lovely thing. But the fact that he was asking for what Ned had tried to force from her melted her resistance even further.
”I'm willing to repeat a lesson as often as it takes to learn it,” she said, shocked by her own boldness.
His response was to untie the top of her corset and pull the cups down to expose her chemise. She dragged in a long breath as the chill of the room made her nipples harden beneath the linen. The fire that leapt in his face was so hot it sparked flames low in her belly.
”What lesson is this?” she choked out.
His wild gaze met hers. ”That even a low b.a.s.t.a.r.d can be tempted above his station when a lady is as lovely as you.”
”A lady? Not a tomboy?”
”I wish you were a tomboy, sweeting,” he said bitterly. ”Then you wouldn't have viscounts and earls and dukes vying for your favors.”
Was he jealous? Oh, how wonderful if he was! ”And Bow Street Runners?” she prodded.
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