“I couldn’t either,” he admitted, “when the idea first came to me. But once it did, I couldn’t let it go, and I soon realized it made perfect sense.”
She pressed her fingers into her temples. For God’s sake, why did he keep carping on about sense? If he uttered the word one more time she thought she might scream.
And how could he be so calm? She wasn’t certain how she thought he ought to act; she’d certainly never imagined this moment. But something about his bloodless recitation of a proposal gnawed at her. He was so cool, so collected. A bit nervous, perhaps, but with his emotions completely even and unengaged.
Whereas she felt as if her world might spin right off its axis.
It wasn’t fair.
And for that moment at least, she hated him for making her feel that way.
“I’m going upstairs,” she said abruptly. “I’ll have to talk with you about it in the morning.”
She almost made it. She was more than halfway to the door when she felt his hand on her arm, his grasp gentle and yet holding her with unrelenting strength.
“Wait,” he said, and she could not move.
“What do you want?” she whispered. She wasn’t looking at him, but she could see his face in her mind, the way his midnight hair fell over his forehead, his heavy-lidded eyes, framed with lashes so long they could make an angel weep.
And his lips. Most of all, she could see his lips, perfectly shaped, finely molded, perpetually curved into that devilish expression of his, as if he knew things, understood the world in a way that more innocent mortals never would.
His hand traveled up her arm until it reached her shoulder, and then one of his fingers traced a feather-light line down the side of her neck.
His voice, when it came, was low and husky, and she felt it right in the very center of her being.
“Don’t you want another kiss?”
Chapter 17
…yes, of course. Francesca is a wonder. But you already knew that, didn’t you?
—from Helen Stirling to her son, the Earl of Kilmartin, two years and nine months after his departure for India
Michael wasn’t certain when it had become apparent to him that he would have to seduce her. He’d tried to appeal to her mind, to her innate sense of the practical and wise, and it wasn’t working.
And it couldn’t be about emotion, because that, he knew, was one-sided.
So it would have to be passion.
He wanted her—Oh, God, he wanted her. With an intensity he hadn’t even imagined before he’d kissed her the week previous in London. But even as his blood raced with desire and need and, yes, love, his mind was sharp and calculating, and he knew that if he was to bind her to him, he would need to do it with this. He would have to claim her in a way she could not deny. He couldn’t just try to convince her with words and thoughts and ideas. She could attempt to talk herself out of that, pretend the feelings weren’t there.
But if he made her his, left his imprint on her in the most physical way possible, he would be with her always.
And she would be his.
She slipped out from beneath his fingers, edging backward until she’d put a few paces between them.
“Don’t you want another kiss, Francesca?” he murmured, moving toward her with predatory grace.
“It was a mistake,” she said, her voice shaky. She scooted back a few inches farther, stopping only when she bumped into the edge of a table.
He moved forward. “Not if we marry.”
“I can’t marry you, you know that.”
He took her hand, idly rubbed the skin with his thumb. “And why is that?”
“Because I…you…you’re you.”
“True,” he said, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing her palm. Then he flicked his tongue along her wrist, just because he could. “And for the first time in a very long while,” he said, glancing up at her through his lashes, “there is no one I’d rather be just now.”
“Michael…” she whispered, arching backwards.
But she wanted him. He could hear it in her breath.
“Michael no, or Michael yes?” he murmured, kissing the inside of her elbow.
“I don’t know,” she moaned.
“Fair enough.” He moved higher, nudging at her chin until she had no choice but to loll back.
And he had no choice but to make love to her neck.
He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, sparing no inch of skin his sensual onslaught. He moved up to the line of her jaw, then over to her earlobe, then back down to the edge of her bodice, grasping it between his teeth. He heard Francesca gasp, but she didn’t tell him to stop, so he just pulled and pulled and pulled until one breast popped free.
God, he loved current women’s fashions.
“Michael?” she whispered.
“Shhh.” He didn’t want to have to answer any questions. He didn’t want her thinking enough to ask one.
He ran his tongue along the underside of her breast, tasting the salty-sweet essence of her skin, then reached out and cupped her. He’d touched her through her dress the first time they’d kissed, and he’d thought that was heaven, but nothing compared to the feel of her, hot and bare, in his hand.
“Oh, my,” she moaned. “Oh…”
He blew lightly on her nipple. “Shall I kiss you?” He looked up. He knew he was taking a chance with this, waiting for her answer. He probably shouldn’t even have posed the question, but even though his intent was to seduce, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it without at least one affirmative word from her.
“Shall I?” he murmured again, sweetening the deal with one light flick of his tongue across her nipple.
“Yes!” she burst out. “Yes, for God’s sake, yes!”
He smiled. Slowly, languidly, savoring the moment. And then, after letting her quiver with anticipation for one second longer than was probably fair, he leaned in and took her into his mouth, pouring years and years of desire onto the one breast, centering it wickedly onto one innocent nipple.
She wasn’t going to stand a chance.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, grasping the edge of the table for purchase as her entire body arched back. “Oh, my God. Oh, Michael. Oh, my God.”
He took advantage of her passion to slide his hands around her hips and lift her up until she was seated on the table, her legs parting for him as he stepped into their feminine cradle.
Satisfaction raced through his veins, even as his body screamed for its own pleasure. He loved that he could do this to her, make her scream and moan and cry out with desire. She was so strong, always so cool and composed, and yet right now she was simply and purely his, a slave to her own needs, captive to his expert touch.
He kissed, he licked, he nibbled, he tugged. He tortured her until he thought she might explode. Her breath was loud and gasping, and her moans had grown more and more incoherent.
And all the while his hands were moving silently up her legs, first grasping her ankles, then her calves, pushing her skirts up and up, until they settled in a rumpled pool above her knees.
And it was only then that he pulled away and gave her a hint of a reprieve.
She looked at him, her eyes glazed, her lips pink and parted. She didn’t say anything; he didn’t think she could say anything. But he saw the questions in her eyes. She might be beyond speech, but she was several minutes away from total insanity.