by Anna Bradley
Maybe they did have time for that, after all.
He swept her into his arms and backed away from the door. He’d intended to lay her across Lord Barrow’s desk, but he only made it as far as the settee. He dropped down onto it, his lips still joined with hers, and dragged her on top of him, across his lap, his throat dry, pulse jumping in his neck, ready to devour her.
Jesus. It’s just a kiss. A kiss, like any other kiss he’d shared with countless other women.
But it wasn’t the same, and somewhere in his passion-fogged brain, Robyn recognized it. This kiss was different. He hadn’t lost control with a woman since he’d turned sixteen, but now his body shook with the need to get inside her.
He cupped her cheek to urge her mouth closer to his and dragged his palm down the front of her neck and over the smooth, warm skin left bare by her low-cut gown. He traced his fingertips to the very edge of the neckline, where the smooth silk met the soft skin of the tops of her breasts.
Oh, God. Such a light touch, but he could feel the faintest throb of her heart under his fingers.
Her pert little backside pressed against his groin, his tongue twined with hers, and he was about to fill his hand with her soft breast. Had this not been the case, Robyn might have noticed it when she stilled on his lap. He might have felt just the merest whisper of a retreat.
As it was, he didn’t notice a thing until she withdrew her tongue from his mouth, and then every part of his body howled with the loss. He couldn’t fail to notice when she went stiff and unyielding on top of him and began to struggle in earnest to get away. It cooled his ardor just enough to enable him to think clearly.
Damn it. Something was wrong.
The white gloves. He was certain Alicia had been wearing black gloves and a high-necked gown. He’d noted the style because it was an unusual choice for Alicia, whose breasts were forever spilling from her bodices. There was something else, as well. Just now, when he’d swept her into his arms, her head had rested under his chin. Alicia was petite; her head wouldn’t have reached farther than his shoulder.
Well, someone’s head had rested there, for he’d buried his face in her hair to draw in as much as he could of her intoxicating scent. He was damn sure he’d just run his fingertips over the bare skin of someone’s neck and bosom, as well. Even the finest silk wasn’t that soft and supple. Or that warm. And her scent—that grass-in-the-sun, daisies-in-a-meadow scent. Alicia was charming in her way, but no woman of her experience could manufacture a scent like that; a scent of such pure, distilled innocence.
He really wasn’t kissing Alicia. The shyness, the hesitation, the reticence—it wasn’t feigned. He hadn’t the faintest idea who he was kissing, but he was quite sure she was an innocent. A responsive, eager, passionate innocent, but an innocent nonetheless.
He’d better stop at once, as kissing and fondling an innocent had transformed more than one merry bachelor into a far less merry husband.
At once. That meant immediately, or right now, as in this very second.
She pushed against his chest again, harder this time.
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.
His innocent temptress was determined to escape him. She writhed and flailed and tried to twist off his lap. She’d flee as soon as he released her; that much was certain. She’d flee and he’d never get a close look at her. He’d never know who she was and he wouldn’t be able to find her again.
Unthinkable. Find her he would, innocent or not.
Robyn tightened his arms around her. He had to know who she was.
Then he’d let her go.
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