The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [63]
“Quin,” she said, drawing back. And then: “We’re flirting again.”
“We’re out of flirtation and into the fire. But in any event, no one of our rank could possibly be kissing in a tree.”
“So that means we aren’t where we think we are?” Her eyes shone with amusement, and her lips were swollen from his kisses. “Or this isn’t us in the tree? Or you’re not a duke?”
“I must not be,” he said thirstily, curling a hand around the back of her neck. “I’m not a duke. And you’re not betrothed to a marquess, either.”
They sank into the kiss as if they’d been kissing for years. His hands burned to take the kiss further, to run a finger, a hand, both hands, down the thin linen of her bodice. No corset.
He could hardly bear to look.
And then he did look, and actually groaned softly. “You have—” he said, and had to stop for a moment. “I think yours are the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen.”
She glanced down and then at him. Oddly, for someone who seemed as experienced as she was, her cheeks turned pink and she looked self-conscious for a moment. Abashed.
But then she seemed to shake it off. “We need that kite,” she said, pointing at it, which just strained her bodice even more. “Surely, Mr. I’m-not-a-duke, you can reach it?”
Quin wrestled with the part of his body that felt—strongly—that he wanted to reach not for a kite, but for the delectable female body that stood before him. She was still breathing quickly from the climb, or their kisses, or both, and the movement of her breasts bewitched him.
Leaves swayed all around them, creating a little bower, a room whose walls flickered with sunshine and green shadows.
If only there were a bed. He imagined her under him, struggling for breath, her cheeks a wild rose, hair around her head like a pillow.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said sharply. “You mustn’t.”
“How about if I only look like this when we’re high in a tree?” he suggested.
“This won’t happen again.”
“Precisely.” So he looked again, head to toe. “You’re exquisite, Olivia.” He searched for more words, but couldn’t find them, of course. He could never find the right words when he most needed them.
“You are very appealing as well,” she said primly. “Not that it matters in either case, insofar as we are not birds and cannot live in this tree. I’m surprised your family hasn’t come in search of us.”
“Aunt Cecily was asleep in the cart, and I’m fairly sure that Justin is napping in the grass. His kite probably flew off by itself; he is far too lazy to retrieve it from a tree or elsewhere.”
“Please, can you fetch my kite?” she asked, redirecting him to the original reason they had climbed so high.
Obediently, he stretched an arm and wiggled the kite free, managing to avoid tearing the fragile silk. He carefully let it spiral to the ground, controlling its fall through the branches and tossing the spool of string after.
“You are all dappled with leaves and sunlight,” she observed.
“As are you,” he said, running a finger down the curve of her cheek. “If Justin were here, he would make up a poem. I suppose we’d better descend from this tree. I’ll go first, so I can catch you if you fall.”
“Wait,” she said, touching his arm lightly. Her touch sent a pulse of fire straight to his groin. “May I ask you something? What happened when you took the kites from the box, Quin?”
He hadn’t expected that. Though he should have.
“Nothing.”
She let her hand slide up his arm, over his shoulder, curl around his neck. “You don’t want me to pull you off the branch, do you?” Her lips were smiling, but her eyes were serious.
“Time was when I would have begged you to,” he said, the words coming from somewhere outside his control.
She waited.
But he couldn’t bring himself to say more. “We should go back,” he said, knowing the gruffness in his voice was its own confession.
“Did your wife like the kites? Was that one hers?” Olivia nodded toward the red kite on the grass below them.
“No. It was . . .” He had to wait a moment. Slap the layer of black ice back where it belonged until he was able to speak. “That was the nanny