Page 29 of Barbarous

Daphne was very conscious of his body beside her, as well as the fact they were alone—not to mention her guilt that her neglect was the reason this problem had festered.

She turned away from him, struggling with the unwanted emotions. She’d taken no more than a few steps when the floor sagged beneath her and she lurched forward. Hugh’s arm lashed out and jerked her back.

He grabbed her shoulders and roughly swung her around to face him. “Just what the devil do you think you are doing? You could have broken your neck. I just told you the floor was unstable.” His green eye sparked with anger and his full lips had thinned to nothing.

Daphne wrenched herself away and turned to look where she’d just been standing, preparing to accuse him of exaggerating. But what she saw made her gasp; the place where she’d just stepped was now a gaping hole. She bit her lower lip. Again she felt his hand on her shoulder; this time his touch was gentle as he turned her.

Daphne felt like a fool, and she didn’t like the foreign emotion. She could not make herself look any higher than his chest, but he took her chin with his gloved fingers and tilted her face up.

His handsome features were taut and intense, but no longer angry. “Daphne—” He stopped and shook his head. Daphne stared into his emerald eye, mesmerized by the gold shards that glinted in the green, like slivers of sunlight through a forest canopy. His fingers tightened and his disconcerting gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth and then back.

He gave a low groan of frustration. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered, just before his mouth crushed hers.

Daphne closed her eyes.

Finally. The word echoed so loudly inside her head that, for a moment, she feared she’d spoken out loud.

If she had, Hugh did not appear to notice.

He slid one big gloved hand around her nape and drew her close, making her feel as fragile as the stem of a flower. His mouth was hot and demanding; demanding things that

Daphne desperately wanted to give, but didn’t know how. He must have sensed her tension and turmoil because his lips instantly turned soft and teasing.

“Daphne,” he whispered, brushing his lips back and forth, trailing small, gentle kisses over her mouth, again and again, not limiting himself to her tightly pursed lips, but roaming over her chin, cheeks, and even her jaw before nibbling her lower lip.

Daphne realized she was standing on her toes, pressing her face against his, unable to get close enough.

His lips curved into a smile against hers. “Mmmm, you taste so sweet.”

Daphne shuddered and grabbed onto his body to steady herself as his gentle sucking set off colorful explosions behind her eyelids. The tautly bunched muscles of his upper body were hard and hot beneath the smooth wool of his coat and her hands traveled the broad expanse of his shoulders toward his neck, lightly grazing his cravat before she pushed her fingers into his thick, surprisingly wiry curls.

He growled and inched even closer, releasing her lip and then pushing at the seam of her mouth with his tongue, as if he was trying to . . . enter her.

Daphne inhaled sharply and the room shifted beneath her feet as he took her face in both hands and tilted her, stroking into her . . . tasting her . . . licking her.

She had read about kissing and had imagined how it might feel; but her brain—her powerful reasoning ability—had, for once, utterly failed her as he came deeper inside her with each velvet stroke of his tongue.

The few poor, pitiful shreds of reason she’d been clinging to blew away like dandelion fluff in a high wind.

He consumed her, the hot, persistent invasion of his wickedly skilled tongue turning her boneless. She was vaguely aware that one of his hands was moving south, lightly tracing the side of her breast and following the curve of her waist, finally coming to rest on her hip. Daphne tightened her grip on his hair and pulled him close, opening herself as she molded her body to his.

Skill. That’s what it is, nothing but skill. The pragmatic voice that ruled her waking hours sliced through her passion like a razor, leaving it torn and tattered. He is using his skills on you, Daphne. Just as he has used them on countless others.

No, this is different! she insisted. This is perfect... as if it were meant to be. I feel—

You feel exactly like Meg Standish must have felt right before she opened her legs to him.

The words were like a bucket of ice water on her enflamed brain, instantly dousing her roaring ardor.

“No,” she muttered against his mouth.

“Daphne?” His wicked tongue paused its distracting labor and his soft, hot lips came to rest against her ear. “Is aught amiss?” His breath was a warm teasing feather on her sensitive skin. He felt so good; so . . . right. Her hands acted on their own, sliding up his lapels and settling on his shoulders. She pulled him down and down and—

He will despise you when he learns the truth.

Daphne jerked as if she’d been struck by a whip, staggering away from him.

“Daphne?”