Chapter Sixteen
Sebastian started in full possession of his faculties, aware of what he was doing but enjoying it too much to question the wisdom of kissing her. He wanted to kiss her, so he did. He was. He had no difficulty clearly and precisely carrying out the process, no matter what he thought he saw in the shadows. At first he had just a taste of her mouth, for she barely parted her lips. A kiss charmingly unschooled, which meant, besides surprising her, she hadn’t done much kissing before. He pulled back. She looked bemused.
“Your eyes aren’t a proper color,” he said. “Women with red hair ought to have green eyes. Yours are brown and not even a proper brown at that.”
“I’ll remedy that. Just as soon as I can.”
“You’ve only one or two gowns, and I daresay that pitiful thing is your only shawl. Look at this,” he said in a low voice, reaching for a fraying edge. “How many times have you mended this? A dozen? Several dozen?” His fingertips hovered above the rise of her chest.
“There is no help for it, my lord.”
He trapped her chin between his thumb and fingers, forcing her to look at him, staring into her face and at her mouth. “I never make love to women as small as you.” He sounded raw, and he really didn’t care. “My tastes, such as they are, run more to Diana’s sort. Prettier than you. Taller. More substantial. I need a woman I’m not afraid to break in the depths of passion. I need a woman who gives back in full measure.” He ached. He positively ached. “And yet, Miss Willow, I find myself constantly thinking you are a very pretty woman.”
She frowned, and he tightened his hands on her.
“Your eyes—A man could sail into them fathoms deep.” He studied her as if he could deconstruct her by force of will. “A man might decide your figure is your best feature, or perhaps your mouth. But I find myself inclined to believe your eyes hold first rank among your many charms. No wonder James wants you.”
The wall against his back made a convenient prop. Leaning against it, he caught at her lips with his. She gasped into his mouth. Whether the cause was outrage or shock or passion, he took advantage. He was a scrupulous man when it came to women in whom some other man had an interest. He wasn’t so far gone over her that he didn’t consider the priority of James’s claim or Hew Willow’s intentions; he just let the thoughts flit through his head and off to freedom from morals.
He put his hands on either side of her waist, pulling her against him, thumbs just at her hips. His tongue bridged the gap between her lips. Tightness took hold in his belly because she didn’t deny his mouth. Indeed, no. Her chin angled toward him so he did not have to bend quite so far, and her fingertips balanced on his biceps. He remained in control, bringing her along to the deeper embrace he craved.
The unfamiliarity and newness of her, her inexperience, seduced him as thoroughly as the most intimate and accomplished of kisses. The perfume she wore, just a whisper of scent, filled his next breath. Her lips felt full and soft beneath his and tasted as sweet as any woman he’d known in his life. Hell, as sweet as anything he’d felt in his life. This feeling of completion was what he’d been looking for since he came to Pennhyll, for his entire life since he became a man.
When he pushed aside her arms so he could bring her tight against him, cup the back of her head with his palm, she offered no resistance. They came as close as two dressed people could get. She softened against him. His brain, which had been leading the way quite nicely while providing such information as she felt nice, she smelled good, her mouth was responding under his and that everything so far suggested she would let him kiss her a deal longer, ceased functioning.
The tightness in him uncoiled like a spring. He had no more control of himself than he did of an ocean tide. The currents swept him away. His arms encircled her, grounding him when the room disappeared in a wave of emotion. The world condensed to just the space occupied by their bodies. Oh, Jesus. She was exactly what he needed, soft and warm and passionate. When her mouth yielded to his, quite suddenly he was the one kissing with all the eagerness of a tyro desperate to understand his craft.
Instinct and greed took over. He swept his tongue into her mouth, his hands shifting up and down her back, molding her to him, and he actually trembled with the desire raging through him. What he wanted was to be inside her. No, he needed it. Required it. He would die unless he was. They could have been standing on the quarterdeck in the middle of a pitched battle, and he would have wanted to be inside her. The sooner the better. He stopped kissing her just long enough to say, “Olivia.”
He peeked over her shoulder, and sure enough, there in the corner, not quite free of the shadows, he saw a man. The pattern of his tunic flashed with color. Gold. Crimson. Well, he’d vanish again in a moment, and he had better things to do than watch shadows. “That was much too fast,” he said. “I’m not usually a clod.” Easing her back, he smiled. “It’s been a long time for me, and I—”
“Why did you do that?” Her breath came rapid and uneven. Her eyes were pools of honey.
He touched one of her curls. “Because it’s you.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then let them drop again to her shoulders. “Because I haven’t—” He stopped short of the earthy phrase that came to mind. “Not since Maçao and that was—God, months and months ago. Because I want to make love to you. I have since the moment I saw you.” He stroked the side of her face, unable to believe the extent of his need or even begin to fathom the impulse that had him begging like some downy-cheeked boy. He stared at her mouth and wondered why it drove him mad with desire. A pleasant mouth and not more. Not lush or plump or winsome. An ordinary mouth he wanted with extraordinary heat to kiss again.
He brought her head toward his, his mouth over hers and the whole thing started over. He spread his thighs and brought her between his legs, hard against him. She was better at it this time. Miles better. The damn shadows flickered again. He turned so that her back pressed against the wall, his palms just above her shoulders. Slowly, her eyes closed, as if her lashes were unexpectedly heavy. He was hers, he thought. She owned his heart and his life. He put a finger beneath her chin and brought her face back to his. Through a veil of deep red lashes he saw the honey-gold of her eyes. “You have the most beautiful eyes of any woman I’ve ever known.”
Her arms lifted and went around his shoulders. “That’s very sweet.”
He bent his head and brushed his lips over hers. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, then stopped. With a bit more display of finesse this time, he explored the surfaces of her teeth, her tongue, the inside of her cheeks. His lips sought and took, firing a need that drew him closer and closer to conflagration. In the back of his head, he heard someone in the hallway, distant, and not headed in their direction but the sounds reminded him they were far from private. With his mouth hovering over hers, he said, “Olivia. My love. My own. If we’re to continue this, I want you on your back.” He breathed deep. “If you cannot agree to that, then we stop now.”
She opened her eyes, a sleepy look. The look of a woman thoroughly kissed. His body wound itself even tighter.