“It is yourself you have to thank. You found the courage to break the invisible walls around you.”
“But I would not have done it without your persuasion.”
Her eyes shone in the light of the candelabra, looking at him through pale eyelashes.
He could not help himself. He lifted a hand, morals and self-discipline deserting him. He wished her closer. “Caro.”
She walked towards him, seeming to float like the phantom he’d first thought she was, and then his hands were at her waist and hers lay on his shoulders.
He was a little in his cups, the whiskey burned in his blood and heat clasped at his groin. Thirst. For more than liquor. “I think you ought to go back to your room.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “You do not wish to know.”
“Tell me.” She was speaking as though this was the same as her fear. It was not.
“Caro, go back upstairs, please. I’m feeling very weak tonight.” His words urged her and yet his whiskey-guided hands still gripped her waist.
He was a bastard.
“Weak?” she breathed, looking at him with confusion.
He did not warn her again as lust reared its head and roared through him. Yes, he was weak tonight and now he understood what Harry spoke of.
This time, undoubtedly, the lead came from him. His lips touched hers as his hand braced the back of her head, while his other slipped to the curve of her lower back. His tongue pressed into her mouth in a firm, bold stroke.
Her mouth opened wider, compliant, and her hands told him she was willing as they slipped into his hair, bracing his head as she’d done in the churchyard.
He drew her closer, so her body pressed against his as his tongue danced with hers. His blood pulsed, heavy in his veins, as lust clutched in his groin, hardening as she pressed against him, rather than pushing him away.
The hunger inside him pulled and thrust, fighting for him to hold her more tightly, to be as close as he could come to her. Lust.
She broke the kiss. “Rob.” Her fingers combed through his hair.
“Caro.” He did not understand this, and his conscience cried out when she pulled his lips back to hers. But he did not heed it, he did not care for it anymore. He wanted to be closer still.
His hands clasped her bottom, sinking into her soft flesh through the material of her robe and her nightgown as his erection pushed against her stomach, trapped between them. It throbbed to do far more than touch. “Caro,” he breathed into her mouth, perhaps for permission, he hardly knew; he’d never done this, had never been like this.
His breathing became rapid as he slid one hand back up across the thin silk of her robe to grip her breast. It filled his hand, the weight of it resting in his palm. She had full, round breasts.
She broke the kiss, but probably because he’d stopped kissing her. Her fingers came forward and cupped his cheeks, cradling his jaw as his gaze met hers, her eyes saying, it is all right, you may touch me.
Giddy from the lust and the whiskey in his blood, his hazy gaze held on to the amber in her eyes as his fingers tightened and kneaded her flesh. Her nipple protruded into his palm.
“Why do you not speak?” He wanted her to stop him, because he’d drunk too much to stop himself.
“I do not wish to shatter this.”
His gaze fell to the hollow at the heart of her clavicle, where he could see her pulse flickering. The amber cross that hung below it lifted when she breathed in. Surely she ought to be panicking, but she was not.
Damn it. Damn conscience and morals, and doing right. He let go of her breast and lifted his hand, then touched where her pulse flickered. It rose in tempo.
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