Page 28 of The Scholar’s Spy

Unbidden, and hit yet again but surprise, Robert laughed, the sound rich and warm. He only stopped when he saw her face. Never had he heard such a rationale for kissing someone. In haste, he said, “I am not laughing at you.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “I am tired of not knowing. So, I thought you could teach me.”

“It is not the most flattering of reasons,” Robert said. Although it surprised him how much her request to be taught excited him. However, another part of him would have rather she just wanted to kiss him because she desired him. Not because of science. Not for some experiment.

“Your ego will already have been inflated enough from today,” Abigail said. “Besides, did you wish me to give you a hundred compliments first?”

“No…” Robert said, belatedly realizing that yet again he was falling into the role of the naïve innocent, and not the experienced spy he should be. Or even the elegant gentleman of leisure he was meant to be playing.

“It might sound very foolish, but I am tired of not knowing. I wish to know what makes people so interested in kissing, but now everyone seems to think we already have.” She let out a shaky breath, her fists balling up in frustration, and coming to grab onto the front of his shirt. “I don’t know what to believe. Miss Schillers and the doctor, indeed it seems half the town thinks you mean to marry me—but I don’t know if I want to marry. Everyone is saying things that I never agreed to, nor you ever said. I never planned to. I am a scholar, a scientist—that is what I am. But then again, my sister worries about money, so perhaps I should marry, but no one tells me, this simply assumes I should know—” Pained panic was written over her features. A rush of sympathy consumed Robert as he watched Abigail veer from one fear to the next.

He wished to reassure her, to explain the truth, but he dared not do that. So instead, he wrapped both of his arms around her, containing her. Then when she looked up into his face, he leaned down and kissed her, cutting off whatever she had been halfway through saying. He expected to be pleased that he had found a way of shocking her this time around.

But as ever with Abigail, she had the last laugh.

It had started off as a means of ending the conversation. Nothing more had been intended than a light, pleasing kiss that would shortly be over.

However, as soon as his lips touched hers, everything changed. Her mouth was fuller than he expected, and her hands curled up and around his shoulders to hold him close to her.

It was not dissimilar to a lit match held against a candlewick, the spark immediate and the start of some current that bloomed into bright life. This kiss poured sensation and fire through Robert’s body, past all of his control, and anything he might have originally intended to do.

It was truly shocking.

Abigail’s mouth which had been parted when he’d first kissed her, had briefly let out a start of air, now seemed content to let him continue exploring her mouth. Sensation pounded through him as if he was the one who’d never been kissed before.

One of her fists dropped, latching onto the front of his shirt, whilst the other curled around his neck, in a strange repetition of her movement during the rescue. The memory of this brought such feeling into Robert, that he parted his lips, which were still pressed firmly against Abigail’s, the tip of his tongue running suggestively over the seam of her mouth before plundering inside.

His own hands, which had started at her waist when he’d reached down and pulled her closer, now stroked her back, locking behind her head to bury in amongst those silky strands of hair that had tempted him before. Her skin was soft against his inquisitive fingers, pliant and warm. She smelled oddly of brewed herbs, distantly of alcohol, and something that was uniquely Abigail. It would be strange to think that it could be a blend of sea salt and chalk, dust and books, and oddly enough, Robert could not think of any scent as more appealing.

Now he just wished to know if all of her might be similarly bottled and carried with him always.

The kiss continued, all-consuming as it drove out any recollection of what Robert should be doing. Propriety, the navy, his orders about being here, gone in the soft touch and taste of her lips.

Water to a dying man.

The luxurious voluptuousness of kissing without a rationale, as Abigail clung to his shoulders, her body pressed up against his, abandoned to whatever sensations the two of them might create together.

They stumbled backwards, still kissing. He pressed his eager body against hers, consumed with the taste of her and desperate for more. The pair of them banged up against the wall of the bedchamber in their ferocity to get closer to one another.

It was addictive.

Now her tongue touched his own. What remained of Robert’s control slipped further away.

The need to taste her. Devour her. Savor the feel of skin, under his mouth. When his lips darted away from her own, Abigail gasped, her breath heavy and uneven in his ear.

The sound sent blood from Robert’s head pulsing through his body, hardening his cock as his free hand shifted from her waist to her hip, encouraging her limbs to part so he could push between her legs.

He wanted her. On his bed. Naked. Under his body. Crying out with her provocative, scholarly mind given over to pleasure. In whatever position he dragged her into. Into whatever pose might give them gratification. To claim her, again and again until…

She stroked down his body, with none of the reservations he might have expected from her, seeking information, contact… When the curious fingers brushed against the front of his breeches, Robert pulled away and took a hasty step back from Abigail.

Both of them were breathing heavily. Even in the moonlight from the partly open curtain, and despite his poor eyesight, he drank in the sight of her.

The loosened hair, pouring over her shoulders. The bright eyes, and parted lips. The almost jumpiness of her reaction. It was pleasing, nay something more than that, to know this was how he rendered her.

Certainly, it was better to dwell on her, than on his own reaction, as the possessive need he felt for her shocked him.

Drawing to the nearby seat of the high-backed armchair, he steadied his own breath as he watched. He practiced the way he had calmed himself when at sea and under attack, watching her all the time, awaiting her response. No one surely could be unmoved after such an interlude.