Page 46 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

Her heart lurched. “That sound informs me you’ve had a revelation, my lord.”

“You tried to pleasure yourself,” he said softly, “and found your own touch wanting.”

The heat at her throat deepened. How could he read her so easily from a single glance? Had he grown so adept in the arts of sin and indulgence? “I can only presume it is your rakish wickedness that would grant you such insight.”

“That is not a denial.”

Her breath faltered. Drat. She should have acted outraged instead of standing there feeling beguiled.

“Tell me,” he continued, his gaze lingering upon her, “did you think of me when you touched your pussy?”

Heat coiled low in Darcy’s belly at the provocative question.

“And where did you touch yourself, Red?” His eyes moved slowly over her, as though he could see beneath every layer of silk separating his gaze from her skin. “Did you begin innocently enough? Your throat, perhaps. Your breasts. Did you discover how sensitive your nipples become beneath your own fingers?” His attention returned to her face. “Or were you already too impatient for such diversions?”

Darcy’s breath caught. There it was, the full force of the rake beneath the elegant gentleman. He spoke of pleasure without the slightest embarrassment, with an ease born of experience that made her acutely aware of her own lack of it.

“And when the need became stronger?” he asked. “When you could no longer pretend mere curiosity drove your hand?”

Her pulse beat fiercely beneath her skin. The heat she had carried into Aphrodite seemed to gather again, made sharper by the knowledge that he understood precisely the frustration that had brought her here.

Sebastian watched her closely. “Did you think of my hands upon you? My mouth? Did you imagine how differently I might have touched you?”

Dear God.

His alluring debauchery was quite without mercy.

Darcy stared at him, caught somewhere between mortification and a desire so fierce it made retreat seem impossible. Then she shifted closer. Before she could reconsider the extraordinary boldness of what she was doing, she placed one finger beneath his chin.

Slowly, deliberately, Darcy lifted, tilting his face toward hers. “And if I did?” she asked softly. “What if, when I glided my fingers over my belly, it was the phantom caress of your fingers I felt? What if I imagined your mouth upon my pussy, giving me the pleasure I have painted and witnessed, yet have been unable to find for myself?”

He stilled for a fleeting instant, and though the lapse was slight, it was enough for her to perceive the subtle fracture in his composure.

“Why have you come tonight, if not to talk or paint?” he asked, his voice rougher now.

Darcy drew in a breath, the truth slipping free before she could temper it. “I could not sleep,” she admitted softly. “There is a restlessness within me that would not be quieted, and I believed you might know how to silence it. Was I mistaken?”

Something dark and intent settled into his expression, and without another word, he closed his hand around hers, his hold firm with quiet, deliberate purpose. He led her through the crush of bodies, through the echo of music and laughter, and out into the night air beyond. The terrace lay open and dimly lit. He did not stop there, but continued down the steps into the shadowed gardens as the music and laughter faded behind them.

Darcy’s breath quickened as the world narrowed to the heat of his hand and the pull of something she no longer possessed the will to resist. He stopped at last, turning to her. For a moment, neither spoke. The night pressed close around them. A quarter moon hovered in the sky, its slender light offering little relief from the darkness that cloaked the gardens and drew them into its quiet concealment. And in that quiet, charged stillness, everything between them felt dangerously, irrevocably changed.

A recklessness, perilously close to ruin, surged through her, and yet she felt no desire to flee. The moment carried the intoxicating sense of something stolen, something that belonged solely to her, and for once she wished to indulge in it simply for herself.

She felt the hard beat of her heart against her ribs and the damp evening air upon her skin, but most of all she felt Sebastian, the overwhelming presence of him standing so near she could see the pulse beating in his throat. His eyes, dark blue and unreadable, searched her face as if seeking permission, seeking the words she could not bring herself to speak.

Darcy showed him instead, moving with sudden, unrestrained intent as her hands fisted in his jacket and she pressed her mouth to his. There was nothing gentle or coyly hesitant in it. This was hunger, pure and unvarnished, a wanton desperation that had been building since the first moment she laid eyes upon him. Her lips parted beneath his, her tongue sweeping into his mouth with a boldness that shocked even herself. He groaned against her, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her entire body, and his hands came up to grip her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The kiss was wild, frantic, a tangle of breath and teeth and tongue. She tasted the faint trace of brandy upon his lips, felt the scrape of his evening stubble against her chin, and it only inflamed her further. When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against hers, his breath coming as ragged as her own.

“Take whatever you want from me, Red,” he rasped, her name a prayer and a plea on his lips.

“I wish to feel wild and free, truly unburdened,” she whispered, her voice steady with quiet resolve. “I want no noise in my head and no restless thoughts to trouble me. I wish to be so thoroughly spent that sleep claims me without dreams because, for once, I am content. Is that so selfish?”

“No.”

He took her hand and led her deeper into the garden, past the manicured hedges to a secluded alcove where a stone bench sat half-hidden beneath a tangle of climbing jasmine. The scent of the white blossoms hung heavy in the air, sweet and intoxicating. He sat down upon the cool stone, looking up at her with an expression of such raw desire that it stole her breath.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and rough.