clock measuring each passing second as if weighing the tension in the room. Why was nothing happening?
The bed creaked. He released her hands and she felt him move. Slowly Helena opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands braced on the sides.
Confusion bit her. Shock stunned her. Humiliation began a slow burn that ignited in her cheeks, then washed all over her.
He, the most famed rake in London, hadn’t kissed her. He’d run away from her.
He looked at her with haunted eyes. “My apologies, Miss Winsome. Kissing is something I normally do not do.”
6
H is next words stole her breath completely.
“The hell with this,” Greybrooke muttered. “I can kiss you, Miss Winsome.” Then softly, as if to himself, he bit off angrily. “Damn it, I can do this.”
Before she could move, he shifted to her side, leaned over her. This time, he took her hands captive again, but threaded his fingers through hers. His long, graceful fingers dwarfed hers. Green eyes gazed at her, determined but also vulnerable, shrouded by a fringe of black lashes.
That vulnerability froze her to the spot. Helena didn’t understand. He was a rake and rogue. How could the prospect of a kiss have made him react this way?
Then his arms dipped, his mouth neared hers, and she knew this time it was going to happen.
Her eyes shut. But he commanded, “Open your eyes,” before his lips brushed hers, sending a shower of sparks to dance through her like fireflies.
Her lids lifted and she caught dizzying glimpses of his face. His lashes were half-closed, giving his eyes a languorous beauty. His dazzling pale green irises glowed, brilliant as lanterns. His stubble lightly scraped her skin and made her tingle. His high cheekbones had wells of shadow beneath. And his mouth—his hot, gentle mouth took her lips and coaxed them to open in a carnal and intimate way.
She was speared by shock. She thought kisses were done with the lips closed. They were tidy and polite and spoke of love.
She’d no idea they were so raw and primitive. His lips played with hers, pressing against them, stroking them, caressing them, tugging them.
His back blotted out the light. She could see, even in his coat, the exaggerated vee shape of his back. How powerful and large his muscles must be.
It should scare her, shouldn’t it? He was so strong, and she was really his enemy.
But deep inside her, in somewhere primitive and wanton, she wanted his strength. In that deep, hungry place, she ached for him.
He shifted, deepening the kiss. Warm, big, he moved over her, his weight pressing lightly into her. How could it go deeper? But it did. She sank deeper into the cloudlike cocoon of his bed; she was falling up into his glorious, wicked kiss.
Heat bubbled up inside her.
For a governess, this was wrong. For a spy, this was danger. She didn’t care. For years she’d been the teacher, now she was learning. Learning how a man kissed. Learning how a woman kissed back. Learning so much, so quickly, it made her head spin.
Kisses weren’t sweet. They weren’t monumental . . . because that would mean one was enough.
Kiss me forever. She cried it desperately in her head.
Then his tongue caressed her lower lip, swept over it and slid inside her mouth.
Goodness!
Her senses filled with his taste: the bite of brandy; the slightly bitter, raw taste of smoke on his breath; the warm, erotic flavor of him. His tongue played with hers, and each stroke of it in his mouth sent a pulse of pleasure through her body.
It was like they were joined intimately. That was all she could think of as he commanded her mouth.
With him gripping her hands, she couldn’t put her arms around him like she suddenly wanted to. Fighting her skirt, she managed to hook her leg around his calves, her heel skidding across polished leather.
He’d been right all along. She wanted pleasure. She couldn’t deny it anymore. She, the cautious governess who only wanted to help people, wanted to fling
The bed creaked. He released her hands and she felt him move. Slowly Helena opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands braced on the sides.
Confusion bit her. Shock stunned her. Humiliation began a slow burn that ignited in her cheeks, then washed all over her.
He, the most famed rake in London, hadn’t kissed her. He’d run away from her.
He looked at her with haunted eyes. “My apologies, Miss Winsome. Kissing is something I normally do not do.”
6
H is next words stole her breath completely.
“The hell with this,” Greybrooke muttered. “I can kiss you, Miss Winsome.” Then softly, as if to himself, he bit off angrily. “Damn it, I can do this.”
Before she could move, he shifted to her side, leaned over her. This time, he took her hands captive again, but threaded his fingers through hers. His long, graceful fingers dwarfed hers. Green eyes gazed at her, determined but also vulnerable, shrouded by a fringe of black lashes.
That vulnerability froze her to the spot. Helena didn’t understand. He was a rake and rogue. How could the prospect of a kiss have made him react this way?
Then his arms dipped, his mouth neared hers, and she knew this time it was going to happen.
Her eyes shut. But he commanded, “Open your eyes,” before his lips brushed hers, sending a shower of sparks to dance through her like fireflies.
Her lids lifted and she caught dizzying glimpses of his face. His lashes were half-closed, giving his eyes a languorous beauty. His dazzling pale green irises glowed, brilliant as lanterns. His stubble lightly scraped her skin and made her tingle. His high cheekbones had wells of shadow beneath. And his mouth—his hot, gentle mouth took her lips and coaxed them to open in a carnal and intimate way.
She was speared by shock. She thought kisses were done with the lips closed. They were tidy and polite and spoke of love.
She’d no idea they were so raw and primitive. His lips played with hers, pressing against them, stroking them, caressing them, tugging them.
His back blotted out the light. She could see, even in his coat, the exaggerated vee shape of his back. How powerful and large his muscles must be.
It should scare her, shouldn’t it? He was so strong, and she was really his enemy.
But deep inside her, in somewhere primitive and wanton, she wanted his strength. In that deep, hungry place, she ached for him.
He shifted, deepening the kiss. Warm, big, he moved over her, his weight pressing lightly into her. How could it go deeper? But it did. She sank deeper into the cloudlike cocoon of his bed; she was falling up into his glorious, wicked kiss.
Heat bubbled up inside her.
For a governess, this was wrong. For a spy, this was danger. She didn’t care. For years she’d been the teacher, now she was learning. Learning how a man kissed. Learning how a woman kissed back. Learning so much, so quickly, it made her head spin.
Kisses weren’t sweet. They weren’t monumental . . . because that would mean one was enough.
Kiss me forever. She cried it desperately in her head.
Then his tongue caressed her lower lip, swept over it and slid inside her mouth.
Goodness!
Her senses filled with his taste: the bite of brandy; the slightly bitter, raw taste of smoke on his breath; the warm, erotic flavor of him. His tongue played with hers, and each stroke of it in his mouth sent a pulse of pleasure through her body.
It was like they were joined intimately. That was all she could think of as he commanded her mouth.
With him gripping her hands, she couldn’t put her arms around him like she suddenly wanted to. Fighting her skirt, she managed to hook her leg around his calves, her heel skidding across polished leather.
He’d been right all along. She wanted pleasure. She couldn’t deny it anymore. She, the cautious governess who only wanted to help people, wanted to fling
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