his head back, force her to go further, to sink her hands into his hair, press her body the length of his, he wanted her to sink her teeth into the stinging need spreading in the wake of the sweep of her lips against his. The disconnect between her languid movements and the raging fire they were feeding finally dragged him to a halt.
He drew back, but he didn’t let her go or do more than manage even an inch of distance between their mouths.
‘That was nice.’ Her breath brushed against his lips, soft and warm as a Mediterranean breeze. But her words were as lacklustre as ditch water and dragged him categorically back to reality.
Nice.
‘For someone who was not certain she would like kissing, you did very well,’ he managed to say.
She moved back, but his hands remained on the soft curve of her waist. She didn’t appear to notice and he wasn’t going to call her attention to it because he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. Her eyes were half-closed and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth. It slid out, moist and full, and the tense knot of heat and desire tightened like a ship’s rigging in full gale winds and then her eyes softened in a smile that hit him like a fist to the gut. If he didn’t know better, he could well believe she had conceived of the perfect seduction. It was certainly far too effective.
‘I am glad I tried. This was quite...different,’ she replied.
Different. Almost worse than ‘Nice.’ Before he could respond she stepped back.
‘Do you really believe there is a chance you will find this Mr Eldritch?’
He let her go and moved towards the door.
‘I will do my best. Such a sacrifice on your part shouldn’t go unrewarded.’
He didn’t wait to hear her response. He was damned if he gave her any more opportunities to make a fool out of him.
Olivia went to sit at her desk, staring at the still-open door of the study until the thud of the area door closing brought her a little closer to the surface.
She touched her lower lip. It felt strange, puffy and sensitive like the time Jack accidently bumped his head against hers while struggling for ownership of a croquet mallet, except that it didn’t hurt. Everywhere Lord Sinclair had touched and a few places he hadn’t felt strange—tingly and restless and pulsing, as if he had scoured away layers of sheltering skin. She felt strange.
To think she had worried it would give even more power to those images and memories of Bertram. The moment his fingertips brushed her mouth her mind latched on to the sensation like Twitch on to a stick. By the time he asked if he could kiss her it would have taken a great deal more strength than she possessed to say no.
Now that he was gone she wondered where she had found the temerity to ask him to kiss her. She had told him far too much, revealed much more than she ever revealed to anyone. She had trusted him. She must be quite mad. He certainly must have thought her mad. She winced at the memory of her comments about experimentation. What had she been thinking to prattle on so? It seemed so natural, so right to share with him that fear, that need, her curiosity...
At least if she had utterly humiliated herself, again, there was some comfort in knowing she was not fated to think of Bertram the moment a man approached her. As much as she enjoyed Bertram’s embraces before his betrayal, she could not remember ever feeling them so potently. She remembered Bertram’s own excitement, his endearments, and especially the feeling of power over him. And all of those had been lies. This was different. She was not even certain the earl enjoyed the kiss or whether for him it was merely curiosity and dominance.
All she knew was that she remembered every second of it, every element of it. The sensation of his hair sliding between her fingers, silkier and warmer than those scarves, the scent of musk and soap and something far away but so familiar. Even with her eyes closed images filled her mind—the way his eyes narrowed and darkened as he bent over her, the strength of the long fingers bringing her skin to life, his mouth a breath away from hers... And then the scalding moment of contact and the kiss...
She had been utterly present and utterly lost in the moment.
Even now that he was gone she still felt...strong. Alive.
Confused.
She shivered and picked up his glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid pitch and sway. The packet of his father’s letters was right there, the handwriting on them still clear despite two decades having passed. He had looked right at them without a sign of recognition. Surely anyone...anyone normal would show some curiosity about letters from their deceased parent, no matter how much they disliked that parent? She wasn’t very fond of hers but she would definitely be curious if someone presented her with a packet of their lost letters, even if they were most likely about orchids and other rare flora.
Too much about this man didn’t make sense.
She sighed and sipped the brandy and stared at her wall. Then she pulled a sheet of paper towards her and dipped her quill into the inkpot. In her scrawled writing she wrote and underlined the title:
Lord Sinclair. Characteristics...
Lucas paid the hackney driver and continued on foot. He was a half-mile from Spinner Street, but he would do well to expend some of his excess energy along the way. He wasn’t accustomed to rebellions either from his libido or his conscience and to have both of them heading in the wrong direction was surely a good indication to retreat.
And yet here he was. He couldn’t even completely blame it on his rebellious body. It had never ruled him in the past, whatever society chose to think, and he had no intention of allowing it to do so at his age. But he couldn’t shake the conflicting images of Olivia Silverdale that dogged his steps as he went about unearthing the identity of her mysterious Eldritch—the garish Madame Bulgari in her satins and silks, the coolly veiled woman issuing her demands, and especially the girl waiting to experiment with kissing, managing to look both lost and fiercely determined all at once.
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