A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

“Don’t fight it, Genevieve,” he whispered, curling his finger to coax another shudder of response. “Don’t fight me.”

Saying yes seemed too brazen. Saying no meant he’d curtail this astonishing journey.

She’d never imagined a man would touch her like this. Especially a man who made no promises beyond not hurting her. Beneath her cheek, his heart raced. If he’d remained unaffected, it would be so much easier to remember that she’d always been chaste.

When she didn’t speak—coherent words were beyond her—he stroked his finger in and out, setting up a driving rhythm in her blood. His arm tightened around her back, bringing her closer. She lay across his lap, as open as a door flung wide in welcome.

The pressure deepened. Exquisite sparks lit her blood. He invaded her with two fingers. Gently, inexorably, he pressed inside. She trembled at the glorious fullness and tightened her grip on his shirt.

This time when he withdrew, she instinctively lifted her hips to follow. He buried his head in her hair, muttering encouragement. His jagged breathing filled her ears as he fueled her response. He stoked a fire inside her, a fire that flared higher and h

igher until it raged out of control. She gasped her frustration against his chest.

Suddenly, torment dissolved into brilliant light and her body flowered into pleasure. She cried out in surprise and delight and rose toward that adept, tormenting hand.

Chapter Nineteen

As they drove home, Christopher remained quiet. At first, Genevieve was grateful. His silence gave her a chance to come to terms with what they’d done. But as they wound along the country roads, she began to wonder if her wantonness disgusted him. The pelisse covered her rumpled dress and he’d helped to fix her hair, but she had a painful suspicion that what had happened on the river was written across her in letters a foot high.

Long after she’d succumbed to those unearthly sensations, he’d held her tight against him. He’d kissed her when she’d floated back to earth, but not since, and his smile when at last he’d released her had been strained. With hardly a word, he’d packed up the remains of their meal, then while she settled onto cushions that carried the scent of their bodies, he steered them back to Oxford.

Conflicting emotions had gripped her as she’d watched the willow grove recede. Surprise. Shame, although not as sharp as it should be. Satisfaction.

Her response to his touch had been a revelation. So much for clever, self-contained Genevieve Barrett. She’d all but fainted in his arms. Even now, as she sat beside him in the elegant carriage, the glow lingered. The frightening truth was that she loved his touch. She wanted him to touch her again. And if he did, she had a horrible inkling that the encounter wouldn’t stop at kisses.

They’d collected an exhausted and overexcited George from the stables. The boy now slept behind them, wrapped in a rug that Christopher had produced from beneath the dog seat. Another rug covered her legs. The evening wasn’t cold, but it had cooled since the day. Or perhaps she’d been too occupied this afternoon to notice any temperature other than her own. She bent her head under its bonnet and contemplated the rug’s plaid pattern.

What was in Christopher’s mind? His demeanor offered no clue. He used that inscrutable expression to distance people. Now he turned it on her and she hated the experience. With George so close, she couldn’t ask. Instead she stewed over her rashness.

Christopher took a corner at what felt like dangerous speed and she reached under her rug to curl her fingers around the edge of the seat. Ahead lay a straight stretch, empty of traffic. Christopher spoke a word to the horses who settled to a trot. He caught the reins in one hand and tore the leather glove off his other hand with his teeth. Genevieve watched from the corner of her eye and wondered what he intended.

He lowered his bare hand and slid it beneath her rug. She tensed with appalled denial. Surely he couldn’t plan more seduction. George might wake any second.

Then she felt the glance of Christopher’s little finger against hers. A brush, almost accidental. He touched her again.

Such insignificant contact. Yet she felt it. In a strange way, as strongly as she’d felt those brazen caresses on the river.

Her turmoil eased. She chanced another peek at his face. He concentrated on the road ahead, but a softness about his mouth indicated that he too felt the bond. She stared unseeingly over the horses’ pricked ears as warmth seeped up from that chaste, sweet communication.

Everything would be all right. Everything would be all right.

Richard drew up outside Mrs. Garson’s cottage as evening edged toward twilight. He leaped to the ground and strode around to lift George into his arms. The boy was sound asleep. He hadn’t been much of a chaperone, praise heaven.

Keeping George wrapped against the nip in the air, he carried the boy up the path. Before he reached the door, it banged open and Mrs. Garson rushed out. “Thank heavens you’re back, Mr. Evans. And Miss Barrett too. Such goings-on.”

“What’s happened, Mrs. Garson?” Gently, he handed a stirring George to his mother, even as foreboding settled in his gut. The day had been perfect. Its very perfection tempted fate.

Mrs. Garson broke into a confused tale about strangers breaking into the vicarage. Genevieve climbed down. “Is my father unharmed?”

Mrs. Garson hardly paused. “Tied Vicar up, they did, and locked him in his library. Goodness knows what else.”

“Dear Lord…” In a whirl of green skirts, Genevieve hurtled toward the vicarage.

Richard scrambled into the driving seat and whipped the horses to a speed risky in the high street. He clattered around the back of the vicarage and drew the vehicle to a juddering stop. Williams emerged, almost hopping in his urgency.

“Mr. Evans, Mr. Evans, you’ve heard then.”

Richard flung the reins to the groom and jumped down. “What happened?”