Page 98 of When We Touch

“You have to abide it. You’re there to watch over Arianna.”

She sat back, her jaw twisting into a rigid lock.

The carriage moved on.

The ride seemed interminable. And still, at last, they came to Moorhaven. She tried to jump out of the carriage before he could assist her. He was faster. They crashed into one another, trying to vacate the conveyance. She forced herself to allow him to go first, to reach for her, help her out.

“Thank you, Randolph!” she called cheerily to the coachman. “Good day, Viscount,” she said coldly to Jamie.

She marched into the house and raced up the stairs, swearing to herself as she realized that he was following her.

The ever annoying Mrs. Whitley must have arrived in the foyer after she had headed up the stairs. She could hear the woman talking to Jamie.

“Lord Langdon! What a pleasure. Will you be having supper? The house is in such a state of . . . confusion, these days!”

She didn’t know what Jamie replied. She reached her room, entered, slammed the door, and began to pace. Where was Mireau? How on earth would he hide the baby? What would he do with her?

She was so deeply entrenched in her worry and thoughts that she was stunned when her door burst open. Jamie had followed her up.

He stared at her, his fury evident.

“What?” she cried. “I’m in the house! In my room, going nowhere!”

“Why are you so astonished that I don’t care to see you killed—and ripped to pieces?”

“I will not be killed and ripped to pieces!” she protested.

He strode across the room, tension evident in the set of his shoulders, the length of his stride. And she found that she didn’t move, that she longed for him to accost her, couldn’t wait to fight back, pound her fists against his chest.

He stopped before her. She expected some violence. She was ready to return it with a vengeance.

He reached out. His fingers settled upon her shoulder with such a power that she nearly cried out. But then she was crushed against him. And when his thumb lifted her chin and his lips settled upon hers, she gave up the concept of a fight in less than a second.

Longing swept through her with lightning speed, with shameful fervor. She parted her lips to the deep wet depths of his assault, and returned the volatile force of the kiss. She felt his hands, molding her against him, touching her. Beneath his trousers she felt the force of his arousal, and it only caused her to feel a weakening in her knees, a drastic need to shed any of the barriers between them. It was ungodly to want someone so badly. To not care in the least about propriety, to not even realize the manner of the sin to be committed. And yet . . .

She felt the length of his fingers against her. Amazingly quick, and adept. She was breathless, gasping, reaching for his cravat, his waistcoat . . . scarcely aware that her clothing was being strewn as well, bit by bit, falling in a trail across the floor as they broke to discard some other piece of cloth, met and dueled with lips and teeth and tongue again, moved . . . discarded, and at a last, hit the bed with all flesh bared to one another, lips locked once again in a kiss that held both fury and need, defiance and argument, and sheer wild sensuality.

What happened then was quick.

And desperate.

And still . . . so complete.

She felt him all over her. His hands . . . those long fingers . . . trailing, sweeping, brushing the length of her. Cradling her breasts, teasing the nipples, until she felt the very hardness of them herself, taut, craving ever more attention. The caress of his tongue obliged, until passing farther—and always, against flesh that seemed to scream and screech, so sensitized that the slightest breath was an erotic seduction—against the terrain of her body, savoring for seconds the terrain of her belly and hips. His touch, a step ahead, a brush . . . an intimate probe, sensation that nearly tore cries from her lips, stopped only by the renewed assault of his mouth against hers, until it departed down the length of her flesh again, inundating her with a liquid blaze, centering upon the very center of her arousal, drawing, evoking . . .

She nearly screamed again, but he was above her, and within her, and again, it was the fever of his mouth that swallowed her cries, while the volatile power of his length moved within her, and then it seemed that there was nothing, nothing on the earth except for him, and the intoxicating realm in which they reached and surged, swathed in the swirling rise of sensation, seeking, needing . . .

And skyrocketing.

The world became ablaze with light; sweetness saturated the length of her, touching every finger, toe, soaking through to her mind. Her hair was a tangled damp mess, curled between them. His body was hard and vibrant still, even as he remained within her, the aftermath creating little tremors within them both as passion and their climax took due course. Body against body, the force and weight of him remained. And for long moments, she wavered between reality and dream, wishing that she could curl against him, rest her head, rest her soul, and let sleep creep over her now, there, where she was sheltered, in his arms.

But he withdrew. She closed her eyes, not wanting to meet his. But she sensed that he wasn’t seeking her out, but rather, that he had thrown his legs over the side of the bed, and was running his fingers through his hair.

“Sorry,” he said briefly, as if he had bumped into her on a stairwell.

She winced, but turned away, said nothing. Surely, there would be more. There had to be more between them.

But there wasn’t. He rose. She heard him dressing.