The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“But what if it proves to be an equally unfulfilling experience?”

“Trust me,” he said, pushing aside the thought that one kiss would not be enough. “It won’t.”

Miss Flint scanned his face and placed her gloved hand on his cheek. “You have far too much confidence in your ability to please,” she whispered, “yet I find the nervous hitch in your voice rather endearing.”

Nervous hitch?

What the devil did she mean?

“Perhaps you mistake nerves for excitement.” In truth, he was apprehensive. Should he fail to please, he doubted the opportunity to taste this beguiling creature would arise again.

“Then we shall have to do something to calm your spirit.” She moistened her lips and pressed them lightly to his.

She tasted of apples, of sweet meadows in the height of summer. The aromatic scent of jasmine flooded his senses once again. In Persian, jasmine meant a gift from God. Never had anything been more appropriately named.

For some reason, he closed his eyes. The merest movement of her mouth ignited a fire deep in his core, one he feared would never be tempered. The urgency to drink, to taste her deeply came upon him. All senses sprang to life, though he felt slightly detached from reality.

As a man used to meaningless encounters, his reaction unnerved him. Yes, he was in the grip of a mild obsession. Yes, he found every word that tumbled from her mouth fascinating. But once he’d succumbed to his craving, it would soon pass.

She pulled away, only slightly. “If I am to rid myself of a bad memory, I suspect you may need to kiss me back.”

Like a green boy fresh from the schoolroom, his effort was far from adequate. “Forgive me. I am still stunned you agreed.”

“As am I, but the desire to banish painful images of the past proved too tempting.”

Oliver slid his arm around her waist. “Then allow me to rectify what you deem to be my lack of enthusiasm.”

He drew her close so that her soft breasts pressed against his chest. The tiny gasp that left her lip

s went some way to restoring his masculine pride. He lowered his head again, kissed her slowly, teased her lips apart.

Unable to continue with this torturous slow melding of mouths, he deepened the kiss. From the hitch in her breath, it was evident Miss Flint had never experienced such a level of intimacy before.

The thought pleased him immensely.

Well, he would be the one to tutor her in the art of passion. And so he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, eager to delve inside the wondrous cavern. She welcomed him in. Her tentative tongue touched his once … twice … and then her desire burst through the flimsy dam of restraint. She threaded her hands around his neck and into the hair at his nape. A born temptress, she moaned into his mouth in such a way as to send every drop of blood in his body surging to his cock.

The searing heat inside spread — a desperate need to sate the hunger that consumed him. He smoothed his hands down her back, cupped her buttocks and squeezed as he explored the mysteries of her mouth. Urgent fingers ran up the front of his evening coat, grabbed the lapels and tugged.

Good Lord!

If she continued in this vein, he feared his cock would burst from his breeches. Indeed, he could think of nothing but gathering her skirt up to her waist … pushing into her core … hard and deep … pushing home.

The rumble of carriage wheels and the thud of horses’ hooves pounding the road caught their attention.

Miss Flint dragged her mouth away and heaved in a deep breath before peeking out of her hood at the hackney cab rolling to a stop outside Cunningham’s house.

Oliver tried to focus on the scene, but his mind was still drunk with desire. Miss Flint’s sweet taste lingered in his mouth. Her potent scent teased his nostrils.

“Lord Cunningham has a visitor,” Miss Flint whispered.

A lady alighted and paid the driver. The travelling cloak she wore was similar in style to Miss Flint’s garment, and she too had raised the hood to disguise her identity.

“Is that Rose?” It was a ridiculous question, Oliver decided, but all logical thought had abandoned him. Two years had passed since he’d last laid eyes on his sister, not twenty. Still, it felt like a lifetime. “I recall her being slender with an abundance of golden tresses.”

Those vibrant ringlets had caused the girl no end of trouble with their father. The Darbys were dark by hair, dark by nature. Rose was a glittering ray of sunshine.

Miss Flint squinted in the darkness. “Rose was wearing a navy-blue cloak when she left Morton Manor. I’m sure that is the one. Should I call out to her?”