No Ordinary Gentleman

“Oh, God . . .”

“How I’ve dreamed of you. Touched you so many times in my sleep only to wake, aching for you.”

“I’m here.” I run my hand through his thick hair as his tongue licks away the slight sting, kissing his way up my neck to deliver the kind of soliloquy that makes my knees weak.

“I want you, Holland. I want your taste in my mouth and your cries ringing in my ears. I want to you so damned much it hurts. Tell me yes. Tell me I can have you. Here. Now.”

“You have the mouth of a sinner.” But that can’t be true because nothing sinful could deliver such reverence.

“I have a mouth that only wants to worship you.” His expression is so full of heat and want, it scrambles my brain and liquifies my bones.

“But the dinner,” I whisper as my hands tighten in his hair. Not to push him away but to bring him closer because I know his madness. Recognise it. And I now know why I’m not at the pub tonight. Because this is fate at play.

It has to be.

“You’re all the sustenance I need.” His fingers free my breast from the cup of my bra, my pebbled nipple perched above the lace. My thoughts dissolve as his head descends, and he takes my nipple into his mouth.

With a desperate-sounding whimper, I arch from the shelves, chasing the sucking pull of his mouth.

“Fuck, you were right that night.” His gaze flicks up to mine, his lush mouth playing at a hesitant smile. “I do seem pretty bitey.” My body bows as his tongue flicks out. “It’s all you, darling. You make me want to devour you whole.”

Maybe I’d be running for the hills if his words didn’t sound so reverent. As it is, I can do nothing but moan as his tongue coasts up the underside of my breast. But as the coarse pads of his fingers begin to pluck my hose, my sense of practicalities, of propriety, are tugged. I can’t go back to work with ripped tights, looking like I’ve been ridden hard in the library on the down-low.

“But Alexander, people will come.”

“That’s very much the plan,” he says, dropping to his knees. “Let me put my mouth on you. I want to taste you.”

Oh, yes . . .

“But they might come looking for me.” And if they find me like this with one of the guests . . .

“No,” he murmurs, working my skirt up my thighs. “They know where you are. Sophie saw me lead you in here.”

“Sophie?” Her name might ring a bell, but not the alarm-sized buzzing going off in my head right now.

“Later.” His fingers slide under my now belt-sized skirt, thumbs hooking into the waistband of my hose.

“No.” I press my hands over his. I desperately want this—I want him—but that thing tugging at the edge of my consciousness won’t be ignored.

Alexander’s fingers relax, his hands curling around my hips instead. His gaze dips, the dark crescents of his lashes like a fan against his cheeks. I watch the deep movement of his throat as he swallows, the effort it takes to contain himself. And all the while, I’m wondering why can’t I just give in.

“Holland.” My name is a groan as he pitches forward, pressing his forehead to my chest. “Don’t make me go into dinner like this.” Still on his knees, he moves back, his very obvious erection tenting the heavy fabric of his kilt.

Is there anything about him that isn’t breathtaking?

“I want . . .” Him. This. “Let’s do this properly. Can you leave? Fake illness or an emergency? Sneak out?” I run my fingers through his hair, trying to make it look a little less sex-mussed. Or almost sex-mussed as the case may be. I’ll feign illness. I’ll just tell Chrissy I must have what Mari has. Then somehow, I’ll sneak him up to my room. My conscience is pinged at the thought of being so disrespectful towards Isla, but this has to be fate! And if nothing else comes of this tonight, at least I will. Multiple t—

“I can’t leave a dinner as the host.”

A giddy thrill runs through me. But then: “Wait, what?” My hands drop from his head to his shoulders, curling there. He didn’t just say host, did he? Guest of honour, maybe?

“I also can’t sit for six fucking courses at the head of that table, willing them all to hell.” His accent is so proper, though the words not so much. Words that tilt my reality on its axis.

I push at his shoulders, sliding along the tall bookcases to put a little distance between us.

“What is it?”

Alexander Dalforth? But I thought the duke’s name was Sandy. When I don’t answer, he stands, the action as lithe as a jungle cat.