That same sizzle whispered over his skin, like desire had commandeered his flesh, making him burn everywhere. Once more. That’s all I need.
Wingfield’s gaze drifted down to Violet’s bosom, where it lingered far longer than was polite, and Max’s hands curled into fists. Wingfield would need to be put in his place, it seemed.
“I’m headed to the card room,” Charles was saying. “Care to join?”
“I’ll pass. Excuse me,” Max said, already drifting into the crowd. He moved to the edge of the dance floor, not bothering to hide as he caught Violet’s eye. She stumbled when she spotted him—requiring Wingfield to steady her with a hand on her hip—and blinked.
Momentarily setting aside the need to pummel her dance partner, Max tilted his head toward the terrace. She nodded ever so slightly then looked away.
Excellent.
He ignored those who attempted to catch his attention as he strode through the crush. The whole world could wait, as far as he was concerned.
Now was time for play.
Chapter Six
He was here.
Ravensthorpe was here and wished to see her. Violet could hardly believe it. Had her plan worked? It had been two weeks since their night together and she’d grown despondent, certain she’d erred in giving him space. So, she’d buried herself in her classes at the Polytechnic Institute and in her photographs. In fact, after so many hours in the developing room, the chemicals had begun to sting her lungs.
All that had been worth it, however, because the handsomest duke in London had arrived . . . and he’d motioned for her to meet him outside.
Her chest worked to draw in air, her corset growing tighter at the idea. Would he kiss her again? Goodness, she hoped so. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about their night together, the way he’d touched her, as if he already knew every part of her. As if they’d been together for years.
He thought he’d ruin her. Destroy her and toss her aside. Violet didn’t believe it. She was safe with him, protected. Cared for. He’d pushed her away out of loyalty and an overblown sense of nobility, but perhaps he’d come to realize that he was safe with her, too.
Finally the music ended and Wingfield led her off the dance floor. “Lady Violet,” he said, and she noticed the beads of sweat on his upper lip. “Would you do me the honor of joining me—”
“No, thank you, my lord. I must find my father. You’ll excuse me?”
Without waiting on a response, she curtsied and then darted into the throngs of lords and ladies as she made her way to the French doors.
To Ravensthorpe.
Giddiness ignited in her chest like flash powder—and then Charlotte appeared in her path, a questioning expression on her friend’s face. Violet stopped before she careened into the other woman. “Hello, Charlotte.”
“You never finished telling me about your new suitor during our shopping trip yesterday.” Violet’s expression must’ve reflected her sudden panic because Charlotte continued. “Calm down. I meant Wingfield.”
“Right.” Violet exhaled in relief. “Wingfield.”
Charlotte’s brows lowered. “Who did you think I meant?”
“No one. Just unaccustomed to having a suitor, I suppose.”
Her friend drew closer. “I am so happy to see you dancing. Three times tonight! For once you’re not standing against the wall, watching everyone else.”
Violet had no desire to converse at the moment. She tried to gracefully edge around her friend. “I don’t know what’s come over me. Perhaps I should get some air.”
“Oh, excellent idea. I’m due for a dance, so I’ll find you after.” Charlotte squeezed Violet’s hand and then disappeared into the crowd.
Violet wasted no time in hurrying to the French doors. She slipped onto the terrace, where cool night air washed over her exposed skin like a caress, causing her to shiver. With no torches or lamps outside, darkness engulfed her.
Strong fingers wrapped around her arm and began pulling her deeper into the gloom, helping her down the stone steps. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was Max. His presence surrounded her, a feeling of safety and danger, arousal and comfort all at the same time. She went willingly, eagerly, unconcerned with getting caught.
Once on the ground, he tugged her into an alcove hidden underneath the stairs. Before she could see his face, he was on her, the muscular length of him flush to her front, her back against the rough stone.
But he didn’t kiss her.
He put his mouth near her ear, his warm breath coasting over her skin. “Happy, little mouse? For two weeks I’ve tried to forget you. A goddamn fortnight, yet here I am—all because I cannot get the taste of your pussy out of my head.”
Her lips parted on an exhale, his words both thrilling and arousing. Wetness gathered between her thighs, her pulse hammering in every bit of her sex. “Very happy, Your Grace,” she whispered and slid her hands along the rigid slope of his chest.
“Christ,” he bit out, bending to rock his hips into her thigh, his erection large and hard against her. She melted, her limbs growing languid. “I want to fuck you right here,” he growled. “Turn you around and toss your dress above your head, bare you and sink inside.”
“Yes,” she gasped, definitely ready for that. There was emptiness, a place in her soul earmarked just for him, and she needed him to fill it.
“Hold your skirts.”
“What?”
But he didn’t explain, merely sank to his knees and began pushing layers of silk out of his way. He looked . . . possessed. Wild, like a starving man at a buffet. She moved to help, gathering the skirts in her arms until cool air washed over her stocking-covered legs.
Finding the part in her drawers, he lunged, pressing his face toward her sex, disappearing underneath layers of cloth. Then she felt the bold swipe of his tongue along her seam, and her knees wobbled as sensation jolted through her. His hands cradled her buttocks and lifted her left leg to place it over his shoulder.
“You must remain quiet,” he ordered and dove under her skirts.
He wasted no time, licking and sucking until she whimpered. She thrashed her head as he tended to every part of her, driving her higher and higher, and lust tightened her muscles. He feasted, softly grunting in response to her moans, his mouth and tongue unrelenting, unforgiving against her flesh.
Voices suddenly sounded above on the terrace, a few revelers out for a bit of fresh air, no doubt.
Though she was well hidden, she froze, her chest heaving, and stared down at Ravensthorpe. The light of the moon revealed Max’s smirk as he appeared from under her skirts. “Quiet,” he mouthed, then returned to his task.
Sweet heavens.
She trembled under the onslaught, but her mind was stuck on the fact that they weren’t alone out here. What if they were discovered? She tried to dislodge his face from between her legs, but the duke wouldn’t budge. In fact, he doubled his efforts with her clitoris, sucking on the bud, laving it with his tongue.
It was too much.
Her eyes closed, the pressure building as fear and arousal mixed to overwhelm her, and she shoved her forearm into her mouth to stifle her cries as she came apart. Her body spasmed as her walls convulsed, white light exploding behind her eyes. When she regained herself, he gently dipped and swirled his tongue at her entrance, like he was trying to soak up every last bit of her taste.