The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [74]
He walked faster. When they reached the top of the stairs, he moved to the side to allow Olivia to go before them.
As soon as they were inside Georgiana’s bedchamber, she politely but firmly freed herself and dropped a perfectly calibrated curtsy. “I thank you very much for rescuing me, Your Grace.”
“I am happy to be of service; after all, it was I who was responsible for your predicament. And I think we should be on a first-name basis,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it. “My intimates call me Quin.”
There was an odd look to her eyes, one he couldn’t interpret, not the way he could read Olivia’s.
“May I call you Georgie? The name suits you.”
She nodded. “I would be honored.” Then she turned to her sister. “Olivia, I’ll join you downstairs in a half hour or so. Thank you again, Your Grace.”
“My name is Quin,” he insisted.
She really was a somber young woman; her smile came nowhere near her eyes. “Of course,” she agreed. Then she closed the door in their faces.
Olivia stared, frowning, at the door, but Quin didn’t give a damn about what Georgiana was feeling or thinking. He gave one swift look about and found to his deep satisfaction that there was no one within sight, and no one could see them from below. His hand closed on Olivia’s like a vise and he pulled her down the corridor, flung open the door to his bedchamber, and hauled her inside like a recalcitrant child.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.
Quin not only knew exactly what he was thinking, but he knew what she was thinking, too. She could protest all she wished, but he had learned to read her eyes.
Without a word he closed the door and backed her against it, and bent his head to her mouth, spurring the wild, searing passion that always flared between them.
“Quin,” she gasped, but he was tilting her head to the side, unable to think, his entire body just a fierce ball of want. He throbbed to touch her, to have her, to be inside her.
“I need you,” he said haltingly. He shaped his hands around her bottom and pulled her up, closer to him, molding her luscious body to his. “Olivia!” Her name came out low and deep, like a plea or a prayer. She was on tiptoes, kissing him back, and still it wasn’t enough.
With a smooth swirl he plucked her from her place against the door and placed her on his bed. He lowered himself on top of her slowly, making sure that every inch of him was against her softness, watching her to see that she understood what he was doing.
She made a sweet, inarticulate sound, more like a gasp, but she didn’t say a word. Then she was kissing him too, and her body was soft under his muscled thighs, her fingers locked in his hair.
They stayed there, not moving much, for long minutes. It wasn’t kissing the way Quin ever thought of kissing. He thought he knew exactly what a kiss was: a caress of the lips that might or might not involve an exploration of the recipient’s mouth by the giver’s tongue.
None of that made any sense compared to this. This was an inferno and a conversation, all at once. He felt every touch with double ferocity: the way her fingers caressed his hair and then clenched almost painfully if he nudged forward with his hips. Her breath, sweet and smelling of tea and lemons. The little sounds she made in the back of her throat, urging him on, telling him without words that—
He reared up, looking down at her, running a possessive hand down her neck, her shoulders, trailing onto her breast. He felt her shudder under his touch.
She opened her mouth, about to speak, so he put a finger across her lips. The tip of her tongue stole out and touched his finger. He pressed back, just a little, allowed his finger to slip through soft lips into liquid warmth. The groan was torn from his chest, reverberated through his entire body.
It crystallized his thoughts.
“I will not marry Georgiana.” It was blunt because he wasn’t good at words, even though he was a little