His hand burned; so did his thighs as they pressed between hers as he steered her through a shallow turn. Her breasts firm against his coat, she laid her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heart.
Eventually, with a minor flourish they ignored, the music died. Their feet slowed, then halted; for one long instant, they simply stood.
Then she lifted her head and loo
ked into his face. His temptation, his promise, were all around her, a shimmering veil, a glow suffusing her skin. She knew she wasn't imagining it; she didn't know enough to imagine this. She knew what was there, what it was, what might be.
She didn't know why.
So she simply asked, her eyes on his, deeply shadowed by his lids, "Why are you doing this?"
He searched her eyes, then raised one brow. "I would have thought that was obvious." After a moment, he stated, "I'm wooing you-courting you-call it what you will."
"Why?"
"Why else? Because I want you to be my wife."
"Why?"
He hesitated, then his hand left hers. His fingers slid beneath her chin, tipping her face up. His lips closed over hers.
It started as a gentle caress. That satisfied neither of them. Whether it was she or he who deepened the kiss was impossible to say-his lips were suddenly harder, firmer, more demanding; hers were correspondingly softer, more beguiling, more inviting.
Greatly daring, she parted her lips, just a little, then more, thrilled to her toes when he took instant advantage. Angling his head, he tasted her, then, like a conqueror, simply took more.
She shivered, and gave, and welcomed him in; his arms tightened about her, impressing her soft flesh with the hardness of his. She sighed, and felt him drink-her breath was his and his was hers; her head reeled as the kiss went on.
Again, it was she who took the next step, who, in all innocence, stretched her arms up, slid her hands to his nape and sank against him. She felt a rumble in his chest-a groan that never made it to his lips.
Their kiss turned ravenous.
Hot. Hungry.
His lips seared hers; his hunger whipped, and licked, and tempted. She sensed it clearly-there-beneath the smooth control, the elegant facade. Ever bold, she reached for it.
He froze.
The next instant, she was standing, unsteadily, on her feet, the air cool between them. Her breasts ached oddly; all her skin felt hot. She blinked, and focused on him-he was breathing every bit as raggedly as she. He was just recovering faster-her wits were still whirling.
His hands fell from her; it was impossible to read his eyes. "We should get back."
Before she had time to consider, long before she could gather her wits and think, they were back in the drawing room. They mingled with the other guests while she struggled to find her mental feet. Beside her, he was his usual elegant self, cool and disgustingly controlled, while her lips were tingling, her breathing still too shallow. And she ached, bone-deep, with a sense of having been denied.
The next morning, a stack of books under her arm, Flick stepped out of the side door, looking down as she tugged on her gloves-and ran into a brick wall.
"Ooof!" All the breath was knocked out of her. Luckily, the wall was covered in resilient muscle, and had arms that locked around her, preventing her and her books from tumbling to the ground.
She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against Demon's soft jacket, then she blew aside the curls that had tumbled into her eyes. The exhalation ruffled the blonde locks about his ear.
He stiffened. All over.
Rigid, he awkwardly unlocked his arms, grasped her upper arms, and set her back from him.
She blinked at him. He scowled at her.
"Where are you going?"
His tone, that of one having the right to know, was guaranteed to make her bridle; putting her nose in the air, she stepped around him. "To the lending library."