“In fact,” he murmured, closing the distance between them, “I’m going to kiss you more than just once, or even twice. And not just now, but later—whenever I feel like it.”
Another step forward from him, another back for her.
“I intend to make a habit of kissing you.”
She quickly took another step back as he continued to advance.
His gaze lowered to her lips, then flicked up to her eyes. “I’m going to spend a great deal of time savoring your lips, your mouth. And then…”
Her back hit the wall. Startled, she raised her hands to hold him off.
Smoothly, he caught them, one in each of his, and took one last step. Pinning her hands to the wall on either side of her head, he lowered his and looked into her eyes. Held her gaze relentlessly from a distance of mere inches.
“After that”—his voice had lowered to a senses-caressing purr—“I’m going to spend even more time savoring the rest of you. All of you. Every inch of skin, every hollow, every curve. I’m going to know you infinitely better than you know yourself.”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.
“I’m going to know you intimately.” He savored the word. “I intend to explore you until there’s nothing left to lea
rn—until I know what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you scream. Then I’ll make you do all three. Frequently.”
Her spine was plastered to the wall; he wasn’t leaning into her—yet—but with his arms raised, his coat had fallen open; there was barely an inch separating his chest and her breasts—and she could feel his heat. All down the front of her, she could feel his nearness, the beckoning hardness.
Everything her wanton self needed for relief.
But…She swallowed, forced herself to hold his gaze, lifted her chin. “Why are you telling me this?”
His lips quirked. His gaze lowered, fastened on her lips. “Because I thought it only fair that you know.”
She forced a laugh. A breathless one. “Variseys never play fair—I’m not sure you ‘play’ at all.”
His lips twisted. “True.” His gaze drifted back to her eyes.
She caught it. “So why did you tell me?”
One brow lifted devilishly. “Because I intend to seduce you, and I thought that might help. Is it working?”
“No.”
He smiled then, slowly, his eyes locked on hers. He shifted one hand, turned it so, when she followed his sideways glance, she saw he had the tips of his long fingers clamped over the veins at her wrist.
“Your pulse says otherwise.”
His absolute unshakable arrogance set spark to her temper. Swinging her gaze back to his face, she narrowed her eyes on his. “You are the most ruthless, conceited, diabolical—”
He cut her off, his lips closing on hers, drinking in her temper—diverting it with ruthless, diabolical efficiency into something even hotter.
Something that melted her bones, that she fought, but couldn’t contain; the molten heat erupted and flooded through her, consuming intentions, inhibitions, all reservations.
Eradicating all good sense.
Leaving only hunger—blatant, explicit, ruthlessly seeking succor—in its wake.
The hard thrust of his tongue, the heavy, steely weight of him as he shifted closer and at last leaned in and pinned her body to the wall, was everything and more her witless senses wanted. Her tongue met his in a flagrant mating; her body strained, not to push him away but, every sense alive, to press against him.
To meet his hunger with hers.
To feed his desire with hers.