Her hand rested against his jaw as he lowered his head and kissed her long and slowly and deeply, almost lasciviously, so he could feel the hitch of her breath, her moan of pleasure vibrate through his body when he circled his thumb over the hard peak of her nipple through the muslin of her bodice.
Lust drove a spike right through the top of his head.
Now was the time to lay her back, furl up her skirts, and guide his cock into the snug wetness between her legs. He imagined the two of them fucking like animals there in the rolling carriage. Her body pulsing around him as her first release came upon her.
In the state they were both in, he knew she would let him.
“Dominic?” she whispered against his mouth. Surrendered. Dazed with desire.
Her trust undid him.
“God,” he rasped.
Like a man struggling up from the bottom of the volcano, he pulled gently away from her.
He dropped his forehead into his hands.
And his body heaved like a bellows.
Catherine’s senses rioted in protest at this abrupt abandonment. They wanted more of what they’d been given. If she touched her own skin now, she was certain she would feel her blood vibrating in her veins like a rough river.
Dizzily, she stared at him, but he was clearly overcome. His back heaving as he fought to recover his breath and his composure. Her own breath came in stormy gusts.
She hadfelthis desire for her humming in his body. She knew if she reached over and touched him now, she would feel it still.
She was awestruck by her own power.
By the need for him, thwarted, not yet receded.
She touched her fingers to her lips. They were swollen and tender. The taste of him lingered in her mouth, like a liquor she would never cease craving, and furious longing swelled in her anew.
Finally he turned his head.
They looked across at each other in a long moment of silence. It wasn’t even full dark. There had been an eternity and mere moments involved in that kiss, and it was a shock to become aware of the world again. The sound of the wheels of a carriage over cobblestones seemed like something from a foreign land.
They would arrive at The Grand Palace on the Thames in mere minutes.
“Your hair,” he said finally. His voice was quiet. “It’s coming out of its pins.”
“Oh. Will you... can you...” Her voice surprised her. It was hoarse, as if passion had scorched it away.
And small.
And uncertain now.
Very gently, so tenderly, he slid a pin free of her hair. He smoothed the wayward hair back in place, and with precise care, replaced the pin. Then did it with another.
His hands were trembling.
“There. Repaired,” he said.
She managed a little smile.
He was watching her thoughtfully now, and she again resented fiercely his ability to hide his thoughts. But then, he was a lawyer and a politician, and had been alive longer, and had learned what she was learning: there were now and again very good reasons not to let anyone know what you felt. But she had a sense for what he was about to say.
“Don’t apologize,” she said.
“Keating...”