The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

His last words echoed in her mind. All about was silent and still. Their gazes held, then fell away. He bent his head.

“That is what I want, what I will give a great deal to have.” His words feathered her lips. “I want you to answer truly, to be true to yourself—and to me.”

Sebastian kissed her, even though he knew it was unwise, that he would pay dearly for the indulgence. For giving in to the urge to reassure her, to wipe from her mind any notion he did not want her. He would pay, and she was too innocent to know the price—the effort it would take to stop at just a kiss and let her go.

Her lips parted beneath his; without hesitation, he took her mouth, captured her senses. Held them with a knowing hand.

Held her within his arms, soft, warm and vibrantly alive, the promise in her kiss echoed in the lushness of her firm flesh, the sensual tension in her spine. Held himself back from taking further advantage, from capitalizing on the fact that they’d come in half an hour early so no one would yet expect them, that the parlor was private and secluded. On the fact that she would be his if he wished, here and now.

Torment indeed—unslaked desire was not a demon he had any great experience in conquering. In this case, with her, conquering desire was out of the question—he’d settled for suppression, for caging the beast. For the moment. Promising himself that eventually, this way, she’d be his forever. All his.

His as he wished her to be.

To the depths of her sensual soul.

He was a connoisseur; he recognized the pinnacle of womanly perfection when he had her beneath him. Understood, too, enough of the possibilities to want them all. To want all of her.

Her passion. Her devotion. Her love.

All.

He wanted to seize, to simply take. Yet what he wanted could not be seized, taken.

It had to be given.

The clash of will and desire left his temper, never an amenable one, straining, tight, taut, ready to break.

On a gasp, he pulled back, drew back. Waiting for the drumming in his veins to subside, he watched her face as her senses, her wits, now that he’d freed them, returned.

Her lashes fluttered, then rose. She regarded him evenly through crystal-clear eyes. Puzzlement, and the fact that she was not yet sure of him, were easy to read.

Then she blinked; her gaze lowered.

His hand still lay beneath her chin; he tipped her face back up so he could see it.

Her eyes had dimmed. Even though she met his gaze calmly, the clouds had returned. With a gentle smile, she lifted her chin from his hand, then brushed a kiss across his fingers.

“Come.” She drew back from his embrace. “We had better join the others.”

He let her go. She turned to the door—he swallowed an urge to call her back—to ask outright what was troubling her. After an instant’s hesitation he followed her.

He wanted her trust, wanted her to confide in him; he couldn’t force either. And when all was said and done, while she might not yet be sure of him, he was even less sure of her.

In many ways Helena’s visit was proceeding better than he’d hoped. Thierry and Louis were both keen shooters; at this season his coverts were teeming—there was plenty to keep them amused and out of his way. Marjorie and Clara had struck up a friendship; happily distracted by their own entertainments, they were very ready to leave Helena’s entertainment up to him.

All of which should have been perfect. Unfortunately, the one person not falling in with his plans was Helena herself.

He wasn’t sure she was going to accept him—and he was at a loss to understand why.

But it had something to do with those damn letters.

“Do you spend most of your days here, then?”

He lifted his gaze from the page he’d supposedly been deciphering, looked at her as she idly wandered the room. The “here” was his study; she’d eschewed joining Marjorie and Clara in a comfortable coze by the drawing room fire in favor of distracting him while he tried to work. “Usually. It’s big enough, comfortable enough—and anything I’d want is generally to hand.”

“Indeed?” She glanced at the ledger he was holding.

Surrendering, he shut it, pushed it aside. It was nothing crucial. Not compared with her.