wouldn’t give me a warning, fair or otherwise,” she retorted, her hazel eyes a little bright as she tugged against his grip. “Let me go!”
“I don’t think so.”
And Oliver did what he had been wanting to do ever since she climbed into his coach. Claimed her mouth.
For a moment she was still, too surprised to protest, and then her lips seemed to melt against his, all trembling and soft and eager. He refused to let reason enter his head, and deepened the kiss.
Her mouth was sweet, warm, and willing. She was heavy against him, and he realized that she had tumbled forward into his arms, and all he had to do was hold on to her as he moved back, and she would be in his lap. He burrowed his nose into her neck, breathing in the scent of her, feeling that pulse, and then gently tugged her earlobe with his teeth. She gave a little shriek, and then groaned as his mouth nibbled its way across her cheek to her mouth again. Her hands clung to his shoulders, gripping the dark cloth as if she would never let him go.
He slid his arm around the curve of her waist and cupped her breast in his palm, or what he could feel of her breast beneath her undergarments. Often he found the lacings and fastenings of such garments tantalizing and erotic, but not today. Today they were simply in the way of what he really wanted.
His skin against hers.
She wriggled against him, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing as he. He paused a moment in his kisses to lean back and gaze into her face. Her mouth was reddened and swollen, her eyes glittering and half closed, and she was breathing quickly. Whatever game she had been playing with him a moment ago, he did not believe she was pretending now. There was true passion in Vivianna, and not just for her orphans. This was passion for the pleasure to be had between him and her.
He wanted to claim her, to possess her body with his. But more than that—he wanted her heart and soul. He wanted the essence that was Vivianna Greentree, although he didn’t know what he would do once he had it. The realization was so strange and dangerous that a voice in his head spoke a warning.
Oliver knew he should stop—Anthony would have told him to stop. A true gentleman would stop. But, just as he had almost convinced himself that he was still a gentleman and here was his chance to show his better side, Vivianna spoiled it.
She licked her lips again.
With a groan, Oliver bent again to kiss her, pulling her against his chest so that as much of her was touching him as was possible. He didn’t care she might feel how aroused he was, the hard length of him straining against his trousers. He wanted her to know. Oliver reached down and caught the folds of her skirts, drawing them up until his hand touched her petticoats and then, blissfully, the stuff of her stocking. Fingers sliding up, he found ribbons, and then the plain calico of her drawers. He edged his fingers beneath the loose cloth and, at last, touched bare flesh. Soft and warm. Trembling, he caressed the curve of her knee.
In Oliver’s experience this was often the moment when women drew back. They might kiss and touch, but if a man put his hand beneath their skirts, on bare flesh, the game was up.
He waited for Vivianna to pull away.
She was combing her fingers through his hair. Her mouth was against his jaw, his throat, nibbling above his cravat.
His fingers slid higher, caressing, enjoying the tender flesh of her thigh. Now she would tell him to stop, he thought, panting. Now she would slap him, and berate him, and…
Vivianna gasped and her head dropped back, her throat stretched out to his mouth, as if her strength had deserted her. He made her a necklace of kisses, and then pressed his face into the swell of her breasts through the cloth of her bodice. She held his head and kept him there, her chest rising and falling violently, as if she couldn’t find enough air in the close confines of the coach, or her corset.
His hand stroked against her hip, beneath her skirts, and then he pressed his palm to her soft belly. She didn’t stop him, and his head was light as air. There was an opening running from the front to the back of the drawers, between her legs. Oliver took advantage of it now. His fingers slipped within and found warm, soft curls.
Vivianna went still.
Oh God, please don’t let her stop me now…not now….
Shaking, his fingers tentatively trailed through her silky hair, and found that warm, female opening. She was hot and moist—just like her mouth after all. He stroked her.
Vivianna moaned, a soft sound of absolute surprise and absolute pleasure. It was then that Oliver realized she wasn’t going to stop him. In fact, she had stilled because she was concentrating so hard on what he was doing to her. Lost in the touch and feel of him, as he was in her.
Boldly, lovingly, he stroked her again, trembling as much as she. She moved against him, opening to him. He felt her warm breath against his temple, and lifted his face blindly for her mouth. She found him, her tongue hot against his. Somehow his seduction of her had become something far more. He felt, almost, as if she were seducing him.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped.
He laughed.
“Is this what women are meant to feel?” she asked. “All women?”
“Yes. Although sometimes they deny it, or deny themselves….”
“You mean because they are respectable wives and daughters? I do not believe it is only courtesans who feel this way. All women are made equally, surely, and—”
He groaned, and kissed her to stop her damned talking. Her hands were fastened upon his shoulders, and she moved against his fingers, without shame, without embarrassment, completely lost in sensation. Oliver could feel her weeping against his hand, her body urging him on. He needed no urging. He had never felt anything more exquisite. Her breath was coming quickly now, and he stroked harder, leaning back so that he could watch her face. There was something very erotic in watching Vivianna come to her peak. Or perhaps it was the arrogant conquering male in him that made him want to celebrate his victory.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks bloomed with the flush of sexual desire. She rocked against him, faster and faster, until finally she let out a sweet, soft cry. Her whole body arched, her braids tumbling down her back, her hands clutching at his jacket, and then she went limp in his arms.