“Yes, oh.” He stopped a few feet away from her, just out of arms reach. He finished his brandy and tossed the mug onto the sofa. “I may be a cad, but I do have some scruples, small as they may be.”
“But I didn’t take you as the type to make empty promises,” she whispered, still not looking up.
“I was a politician, Nymph; empty promises are what we are known for.”
She heard his uneven gait as he moved away from her. “And are all politicians cowards as well?”
Her words halted him and she raised her eyes, looking at his rigid back. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, his voice tight and chilly.
“You mock me for being amused by adventures. I am here now, standing before you, taking the opportunity to have adventure in my life for once. Yet you, you who told me that you dream of me and what you would do to me, as soon as you are given the opportunity to make your dreams a reality, you are the one refusing it. Rejecting the chance is more cowardly than never having sought it out in the first place.”
He turned and looked at her, his face unreadable. “You haven’t thought this through.”
“That is likely.”
“You will be ruined.”
“Only if people find out. As you just admitted to a distaste for marriage, I assume you will wish for discretion as well.”
“What about your vicar?”
She swallowed. “We will not speak of him.”
“This will change your life.”
“Isn’t that the point of adventure?”
He fell silent, looking at her long and hard. She shivered under the intensity of his gaze, knowing that if he still refused, there was nothing she could do to change his mind.
Finally he spoke again. “If we do this, we will do it my way.”
“Of course.”
“I will have rules.”
“What sort of rules?”
He shook his head. “I’m not telling you just yet. But they will be designed to guarantee you get the most out of . . . your adventure.”
She nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”
“I will devise a plan to ensure discretion.”
“Thank you.”
He moved toward her and took the mug from her hand, placing it on a nearby table. He turned back to her and cupped her face in his hands. “I am going to kiss you now,” he murmured, looking at her lips.
Sara licked them, feeling her pulse begin to speed up as the warmth from his hands spread down her throat. “To seal our bargain?” She had heard Claire and Jacob do such a thing.
A flicker of disgust crossed his face. “Nothing so trite. I am going to kiss you because I want to.”
His lips captured her inhalation and he slid his tongue into her mouth with no hesitation. A moan escaped her the moment it touched hers and her eyes slid shut. His hands moved to the back of her head, tangling in the wet strands, to tilt her head, enabling him to fuse their mouths more closely. One step brought his body flush against hers, toe to chin, trapping her arms between them until she wiggled them free to move under his arms and place her hands on his back, the blanket falling to the floor and pooling around her ankles. The movement pressed her breasts against his chest and Mr. Grant continued to kiss her with his tongue in her mouth.
This was not a kiss of love. This was not a kiss one gave a friend. Even Sara knew that, innocent as she was. This was the kind of kiss she saw Jacob give Claire outside their bedroom.
This was a kiss of desire.
And heaven help her—she wanted more of it.
She moved her mouth in time with his, her lips becoming greedier for the taste of him, for the feel of his skillful kiss, the scratch of his rougher skin against hers. She pressed her hands more firmly into his back, eliciting a grunt of approval from deep in his throat. His hands released her head and migrated south, skimming down her sides and over her hips before slipping to decisively grip her bottom, squeezing and massaging the cheeks as he tilted it so she could feel a hard length pressing against her belly.
Sara shifted, the hardness unfamiliar and odd. She shifted again, feeling the friction caused by that hardness caught between their bodies. Mr. Grant stiffened and broke the kiss, his head falling back and a groan leaked out of his mouth. “Sara,” he rasped out.