He blinked again. “Yes?”
To his increasing surprise, Ellie raised her hand, pressed her palm to his chest, and pushed, urging him backward.
His senses leaping at the pressure of her palm over his heart, he obliged and took two steps back.
Keeping her hand where it was, locking her eyes with his, she stepped into the room. With her other hand, she reached behind her, caught the door, and pushed it closed.
Hopes rising even while he told himself this would be about something else, he arched his brows at her.
She held his gaze. “I’m here to explain something.”
She was in his room alone with him, and the rest of the household was already abed. He raised his brows even higher. “What?”
Her gaze remained rock-steady. “This.”
She stepped close, raised both hands, framed his face, and drew it down as she stretched on her toes, tipped up her face, and pressed her lips to his.
He was…captured. In that instant, he was caught by her, snared by her directness, her boldness, for her kiss was no mere brush of the lips. This kiss burned.
His response was instantaneous. His own heat and passions flared, surging in accord with hers, and that immediate attunement only deepened the wonder, the irresistibly potent lure that the pressure of her lips had become.
He wanted more. Much more. His arms locked about her—then seized her, held her, pressed her to him. His lips fought hers for dominance, and on a sigh, she melted into his embrace and surrendered.
Her lips parted in welcome, and he surged into the sweet haven of her mouth and laid claim.
The caress and press of her hands at his nape urged him on.
He angled his head, deepened the kiss, and obliged.
Ellie thrilled at his mastery, at the understated assurance with which he made her senses sing. His lips and tongue branded and seduced, tempted and tantalized. She couldn’t get enough; splaying her fingers, she sent them raking through his thick hair, glorying in the silky texture, then she clutched and held him to her and wrestled once more to take as well as give.
The kiss settled into a rhythm, almost a dance, one taking the lead then ceding to the other, each devouring, then savoring, a back-and-forth that consumed her senses and, given his absorption, his, too.
Heat welled and grew, and desire spiraled and gushed within her.
The need for more thudded, a slow, escalating beat in her veins. She pressed closer and felt his arms tighten about her, accepting, welcoming, locking them together. His arms were steel bands, while the press of his hands on her back signaled his desire. As did the hard ridge of his erection impinging on the soft curve of her stomach.
For a split second, she wondered if missishness would intrude. Instead, her senses leapt ever more greedily, hungrily, and need of a sort she’d never felt before—primal and compulsive—flowered and filled her.
This, with him, was what she wanted. What she needed to fulfill her inner yearning.
She’d been right to come, to knock on his door and engage with him. With renewed determination, she plunged into the moment. With renewed purpose, she gave herself up to exploring this—all that was and all that might be between them.
Godfrey didn’t want to surface from the hedonistic wave of passion that had engulfed him, that had swept him from his mental moorings and left him a slave to desire—his and hers.
He was aware she and the sheer power of what had flared between them had overwhelmed his reasoning, shoving all aside to let passion erupt and rule, to let desire lead the way.
He didn’t want to find his mental feet, yet some deep-seated worm of worry, a niggling fear, insisted he had to be sure, that he had to know one vital thing.
It took effort—more effort than he would have credited—to draw back from the kiss. Reining in his craving for more of her was almost beyond him, but finally, he managed to ease back from the building conflagration. The instant their lips parted, he hauled in a breath, raised his head, opened his eyes, and looked into her face.
Her lips were kiss-bruised, rosy and swollen. Her lashes flickered, then rose, and she looked at him—looked directly into his eyes.
Her desire, her wants, her needs were there, clearly etched in the vibrant green-and-gold-flecked brown.
That she wanted him rocked him to his core.
But he had to know.
He moistened his lips and asked, “Why?”
She blinked, but didn’t request clarification. After a second, she tipped her head and replied, “Because I’m drawn to you—more than I’ve ever been to any other man. And I know that you’re drawn to me. I had to know what that meant. What we might discover if we follow the path our senses, our feelings, are urging us down.”
Her eyes confirmed all that was true. Still… “So you’re not here out of any sense of gratitude?”
Her smile was spontaneous. “No.” That smile warmed her eyes and, as usual, warmed him—caressed him in some intangible way. She set her hands on his shoulders and held his gaze. “Yes, I’m grateful for what you’ve done—for the way you’ve handled a difficult situation—and also for the help you’ve offered into the future, whatever that might entail. But no. Gratitude in no way figured in my thoughts, in my decision to come and knock on your door.”
Relief flooded him, swiftly followed by resurgent desire.
His hands, at her waist, instinctively—compulsively—tightened, but her eyes informed him she wasn’t yet finished, that she had more she wished to say.
Still holding his gaze, she evenly, if huskily, stated, “What brought me here, to you, tonight, was…a need to take my courage in my hands and, for once, reach for something I want. Something I actively desire. Something I want for me and me alone. To act in a way I know I must to make myself more than I currently am.” Her voice lowered. “That’s what pushed me to do something I never have before—that’s what had me knocking on your door.”
She’d managed to make his wits reel again. Her words had unleashed such a torrent of hopes and clamoring needs that he felt stunned anew, barely able to hold against the pummeling tide.
But her eyes, what he saw there… “You’ve never been with a man before?”
“No.”
He had to clear his throat to get out the words “So I’m your first?”
She nodded. “Yes. And no, I don’t imagine I’ll be the first lady with whom you’ve lain.”
He cleared his throat enough to mutter, “Just as well.”
Her answering smile held echoes of Maggie’s impishness, but then she sobered.
Ellie looked into his eyes and decided he deserved to know the rest. “You are the only man who has ever sparked even an iota of desire in me. Until I met you, I didn’t know what physical desire was—I’d never experienced it. You gave me that—the shivery sensations, the thrills that crimp one’s lungs. As for physical passion, that was even more unknown to me, yet between us”—she waved between them—“this has to be that, this heat and longing. This wanting.”
“It is.” His voice, deep and low, reverberated inside her.
“What I feel for you,” she went on, “the fascination, the curiosity, the irresistible lure—must be akin to what you feel for a fabulous work of art.” She tipped her head. “In some ways, you are that—you inspire so much in me.”