She stood there, beaming up at him, a woman transfigured by her own courage.
He must kiss her. The moment called for nothing less, and even if it had, he was helpless not to kiss her.
Kissing Eve had been a lovely experience each and every time: tipsy and bold under the mistletoe, surprised but eager in the privacy of shadowed ferns, hesitant but sweet in the confines of a landau…
When she was ebullient, when she was in roaring good spirits with her recent accomplishment, kissing her was… beyond description. Her confidence pulled him in; her joy pulled him under.
Any thought of trouble in London, any thought of the tedium of the Season awaiting him, any ability to think deserted Deene between one breath and the next. He registered impressions only:
The buttons of her outfit pressing hard into his sternum.
The slight tug of her fingers where she’d fisted her hand in the hair at his nape.
The way she wasn’t the least shy about plastering herself with gratifying snugness against his growing erection.
To hold her this way felt… glorious.
And he registered a small, muted kick of common sense against his conscience: he should close and lock the door.
This last he could approximate. He scooped her up against his chest and backed against the half-open door until it was closed, then advanced with her to lay her down on the sofa. She lay on her back, smiling a secret, pleased smile, giving Deene the sense she was as cast away as he.
“Don’t stop kissing me, Lucas. Kissing you is…”
He paused above her, wanting to know exactly what words she’d choose, but instead she held out her arms and gave them an impatient shake. He shrugged out of his coat and came down over her.
“We should take our boots off, Evie. We’ll get dust—”
Absurdities. He was spouting absurdities, and even those fled his awareness as Eve fused her mouth to his and curled her two booted feet around his flanks. He pulled back, pleased to find she was panting.
For a procession of instants, she gazed at him, bestowing on him a look that conveyed glee and arousal and… tenderness.
The look in her eyes utterly shifted the moment, from one of celebration to one of anticipation. When he lowered his head to rest his cheek against her hair, he understood that for Eve, this was like a soldier needing to pillage after victory in battle, like the necessary carouse after winning a close race or a bet against very long odds.
And it was his privilege to make sure no lasting harm befell her while she indulged in a few moments of heedlessness… no harm whatsoever.
Even if he wanted to bury himself in her heat, wanted to hear her scream his name with pleasure, wanted to feel her desperate with desire.
“Lucas?” The bewilderment in her gaze when he lifted away from her tore at his heart.
“Boots off, Evie. I have an idea. Trust me.”
Three complete sentences, one declarative, two imperative. Quite an accomplishment when a man’s cock was rioting in his breeches. He tugged her up by one arm and knelt to pull off her boots.
While she sat there looking puzzled and a trifle disgruntled, he untied her stock and eased her jacket from her shoulders, then started unbuttoning her shirt.
“Will I like this idea?”
“You will like it.”
“Does it involve my undressing you as well?”
He sat back on his heels, proud of her. “It can.”
And then a cloud passed before the sun in her gaze.
“Lucas, there must be a limit—”
Ah, common sense was nipping at her heels too. He put one finger on her lips. “There must. Trust me to see to it. I promise you’re safe with me, Eve.”
She didn’t hesitate for even an instant. She reached out and started unknotting his cravat. Before Deene could take three steadying breaths, his shirt was open and Eve was drawing a single, incendiary finger down the length of his sternum.
“Back to my idea, Eve…”
Her lips quirked up. “I liked it better when you were kissing me, not just spouting ideas.”
Eve, impish and intent on her designs, had Deene counting the pulse beats in his groin. “Then we get back to kissing.” He lifted her up and turned, then sat so she straddled his lap. Before she could latch her lips to his, he stared in amazement.
“What on earth are you wearing, Eve Windham?”
Her glance flicked down her front, over an elaborately and very colorfully embroidered set of stays that, thanks to some innovative genius whom Deene would like to genuflect before, laced up the front.
“Jenny makes them. Kiss me.”
It took concentration, to kiss her, to loosen those ingenious stays, to not spend in his breeches at the feel of her breasts all silky and warm beneath his fingers.
It took a little contorting too, to get his hand under her skirts while she used her tongue—hot, wet, wicked—on his ear and undulated her spine so her breast pushed against his palm.
And it took persistence, wagonloads of persistence to get her skirts out of the way and find that slit in her drawers, and then kiss her past the bolt of surprise that went through her when he first made contact with the sweet, damp heat of her sex.
“Lucas, what are you—?”
He did not answer with words; he showed her by repeating a caress of his thumb over the little bud of flesh an aroused man neglected at his peril.
Her breathing changed. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, and he touched her again, more firmly.
“Ohhhh… Lucas.”
Eve conveyed wonder and surrender with just his name. He relaxed, certain she’d allow him to give her this pleasure, certain she’d take what he offered.
Though not immediately. He had to experiment a little with pressure and speed, had to pause to pleasure her breasts with his mouth, and pause again to gather the reins of his composure.
He could give them both this much, not more. More was for… not for them.
She hitched against him.
“That’s it, Evie. Move if it makes you feel better.”
She heard him. He knew this because her hips started a slow, languid roll to go with the movement of his thumb. Her pace was voluptuous and savoring, so arousing Deene had to count his breaths to keep from spending.
She did not moan, but he felt it when the shocks of pleasure started to grip her body. She twisted her fingers in his hair, her breathing became harsh, she pushed against his thumb, and then went still while, even with his relevant parts outside her body, Deene could feel her drawing up inside, convulsing for long moments with silent ecstasy.
The need to finish pounded through him even as Eve hung over him, panting against his neck. He got his falls undone on one side, extracted himself from his breeches and was spending all over his belly within half a minute.
Likely less.
And then… more bliss, just to hold her, to hold her and marvel at what had gone before—and mourn that it could not have been more.
Sensations registered with heightened clarity while Eve drowsed on Deene’s shoulder:
The scent of lavender and cedar about his person.
The cherishing quality in the way his hand smoothed slowly over her hair.
The feel of his heart, beating in his naked chest against her naked breasts.
The exact temperature of his neck, the weight of his cheek against her hair.
The luminous and novel lightness suffusing her body.
Each impacted her awareness with bell-tone perfection.
And this was just a taste, just a delectable sample of what and whom Eve must give up for the rest of her life. Further intimacies were out of the question, and thank a God in the mood to show some rare mercy, Deene had somehow understood this.