Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [40]
“You don’t seem to be trying to control yourself at all.”
His laugh was low, running down her spine. “You have no idea what I’d be doing to you if I gave in to temptation. Be glad I have scruples.”
“You don’t have an ounce of scruples.”
“Well, then, be glad I’m going to let you go. After you kiss me. It’s your fault, you know. You should have run while you could.”
“I didn’t notice there was a time when I could run.”
“The race goes to the swift. I’m happy to spend all night like this. As a matter of fact, even if you refuse to kiss me I could have a whole lot of fun just rubbing against you. It might get a little messy, but I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Just healthy, Jamie.” He rocked against her, slowly, his erection fitting in the cradle of her thighs, and she felt an odd shiver at the feel of it. The disturbing pressure.
Her eyes met his with sudden shock, as the remembered feeling swept over her. The first faint tremors of arousal. And he knew it.
It was the cruelest trick of all. That she should go twelve years, trying to feel something for a man, only to have it be this man. This man, who was immoral, dangerous, heartless and cruel. And just plain wrong. But he rocked against her again, his eyes glittering as he gauged her reaction, and she could feel the heat build, no matter how hard she tried to fight it.
She had to get up, away from him. And there was only one way to do it, the least of many evils. “All right,” she said, and quickly kissed him on the mouth.
He was noticeably unimpressed. “I don’t think so.”
“You told me if I kissed you you’d let me up.”
“Use your tongue.” Another bump of his hips against her, and the heat began to spread. It was getting to the point where all he had to do was touch her and she’d climax, and that was something she could never let happen.
She picked her arm up from the table, put her hand behind his neck beneath his long hair and pulled him down to her, pressing her open mouth against his. Using her tongue.
She felt his hands cup the sides of her face, his mouth slant over hers as he took her inside, tongue against tongue, lips and teeth and heat, and she tried to hold on, tried to stop the reactions that were sweeping over her, and then it was too late, and she surrendered to it, to him, to his mouth, kissing him with her body, her heart and her soul.
She’d probably forgotten to breathe. He was the one to break the kiss, to look down at her in astonishment, his mouth wet from hers, his eyes glazed. “God damn,” he whispered. “That was a very bad idea.”
The dreamy, half-erotic, half-fearful haze vanished, and she shoved at him. This time he moved, off the table, backing away from her into the shadows of the old kitchen, shaking his head.
She couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking, and she didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that he’d changed his mind and was letting her go. That was when she suddenly wondered whether she wanted to escape after all.
She scrambled off the table, trying to disguise the shakiness in her legs. “A very bad idea,” she echoed. “I don’t know why you did that, but you certainly weren’t inspired by unbridled lust. I’m not your type, and you’ve always known that. Now, if you don’t mind I’ll just go on up to bed and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
He laughed, destroying her dignified reaction. “You sound just like the Duchess,” he said. He moved out of the shadows into the light. “Take a good long look at me, Jamie, and tell me unbridled lust doesn’t have something to do with it.”
There was no missing the very visible evidence. “It’s a normal biological response—” she began, but he stopped her.
“If I were you I’d get the hell out of here before I decide to show you what my type is.” His voice was mild, the threat was not.
She ran.
She ran so fast she didn’t even bother to slam the door behind her. He heard her stumble on the stairs, and if he weren’t in such an unexpectedly savage mood he would have laughed. She’d break her neck trying to