It was only one kiss. Contrary to what Tristan Sykes thought, Sadie had been kissed, and sometimes it was even she who had initiated the kissing. But that was years and years ago, when she was a foolish, lonely young girl. Before her heart had hardened to the world and men’s monetary machinations. The most recent of her many suitors had gotten nowhere near enough to touch their lips to hers. Roderick had only kissed her hand, and she had immediately rubbed it clean on her skirt every time he did.
Roderick. He would not be pleased at this course of events, but that was her father’s problem to deal with. At least if she married Tristan Sykes, she would not have the urge to brush crumbs from Roderick’s ginger mustache for the rest of her life. Happily, Tristan was clean-shaven, though his face was shadowed by dark bristles at the moment.
She wouldn’t touch them.
Sadie took a step forward and wobbled a bit. She really didn’t feel quite steady on her feet, but it was best to get this kissing business over with.
Tristan had been married, so he must know how it was done. Her previous kisses with Dermot were inexpert to say the least, and six years ago. Once her father had discovered their budding liaison—thanks, she knew now, to Dermot’s treachery—Dermot had been sacked from Marchmain Castle. Sadie had long stopped wondering what had become of him.
One couldn’t marry the groom when one was a duke’s daughter. Even Sadie knew that.
Why was she thinking of Dermot, with his straw-thatch hair and the friendly little gap between his front teeth? By now, he probably was the father of a houseful of children with some accommodating country girl. He’d had such a way with horses and women it was inconceivable to think he wouldn’t have fallen on his feet, found employment and female company. And the money her father had given to shut him up would have helped to get him settled somewhere.
Not that they’d really done anything irrevocable—Sadie was boringly intact as far as she was aware—but Dermot had claimed they had, armed with all the stupid letters she’d written to him. Had he even known how to read?
Her first betrayal. The bastard. Which was accurate in all ways.
Don’t think, Sadie. Regret was too bitter a taste, and led to indigestion.
She wasn’t going to let herself feel, either. She wasn’t going to look into Tristan’s careful blue eyes, or notice the tic at his jaw. Nor would she look at his broad bare chest and the springy dark hair that wended down below the waistband of his smalls.
She shut her eyes reluctantly. It seemed the only way to get through this.
Sadie heard him move across the floor, a telltale creak that he was too near. She felt the heat of his body, smelled bergamot and man and a greenness that was always present about his person.
A roughened fingertip lifted her chin. She wouldn’t look.
At first she wasn’t sure she’d understood him correctly. His mumbled words vibrated against her temple, causing a chilly lick down her spine.
God help me.
This was an odd time for him to pray, wasn’t it? And surely the god of the Anglican Church had no interest in two betrothed—if unwillingly—people kissing the day before their wedding. It was all very regular. Unexceptional.
Until his mouth claimed hers and Sadie’s knees buckled.
His lips were hot and hard. There was no preliminary tentativeness, no gentle exploration. This was a kiss meant to conquer, to destroy all doubt. His tongue swept her mouth open and found hers, smoothing its way across the soft tissue with complete confidence. Sadie parried back, surprising herself. She was grateful he held her shoulders with iron fingers so she wouldn’t stumble, though she wondered if she’d be bruised by morning.
The kiss showed no sign of lessening or lightness. Tristan was making a credible, thorough, very respectable job of making Sadie swoon. Lose all sense of time, propriety and dignity. Make her limbs turn liquid and her blood sing a song she couldn’t understand. There had never been a kiss like this before in the history of her world.
One corner of her disintegrating mind made her realize that Dermot was not the established Romeo she had once thought him to be.
Who could imagine one’s mouth could be so sensitive? That something as blunt and ugly as a tongue could work such magic? That this man, who was a stranger who didn’t even like her, could make her feel—
No. She wasn’t going to feel. This was simply a physical reaction, like putting your hand down on a hot stove and scorching yourself. Nerves or synapses or something—she hadn’t really paid attention when Miss Mac lectured her on the natural sciences. Of course her body was responding, but it did not mean her head and heart had to.
But, oh, she would let him do this for a little while longer before she shoved him to his arse.
He showed no sign of wanting to stop either. One of his hands had left her shoulder and was snaking through her bound hair. The nape of her neck lit with fiery joy. Just more action and reaction, Sadie reminded herself. It didn’t mean anything, though his touch at her scalp had an adverse influence on her nipples, which were suddenly erect. But he wouldn’t know that; there were still some inches between their bodies, though their faces remained attached to each other.
Tristan was a very deliberate man, attentive to details. Well, he’d have to be, wouldn’t he, since he was an architect. One needed strong foundations to support pillars and posts and what-not. He licked her teeth and the inside of her cheek. Both of them. Her palate, too. His tongue had been completely given over to her pleasure, dancing across it with adeptness.
Mr. Sykes was nothing but adept. In fact, he was dangerous.
Sadie felt an alarming heat skip through her body, a desire to eliminate those inches between them and press herself against his bare chest like the hoyden everyone thought she was. But there would be grave consequences, for once Sadie embarked on one of her harebrained ideas, she usually couldn’t stop herself.
And it was definitely harebrained to fall into Tristan Sykes’s clutches like some moony schoolgirl. Yes, he was handsome as blazes. And skillful with women, if this kiss was anything to go by. She could easily imagine his rough hands running over her naked skin and having no objection whatsoever.
“Unh.” The groan just slipped out. She’d always had an overactive imagination.
Tristan took it for permission, wrapping a braid around his fist and drawing her closer.
Oh dear.
And there it was. They were front to front, and every marble plane of his masculinity was imprinted upon her. She certainly couldn’t miss his manhood jutting into her belly, and he probably was not missing her diamond-hard nipples, either.
Inconceivably, the kiss became even better as their bodies touched, when Sadie could have sworn it had been perfect as it was. Tristan’s remaining hand relinquished her shoulder and cupped her misbehaving breast. He thumbed the naughty nipple, soliciting another groan from Sadie.
This was all too much yet not enough. Why were they still standing up when a perfectly good bed was a few feet behind them?
No no no.
Sadie pushed him away with remarkable feebleness. She, who was known for her strong right hook, even if she was left-handed. She stood gasping, hot and cold, elated and miserable.
Tristan’s bronzed face was flushed, his blue eyes hooded. His hands hung at his side, hands that were apparently as magical as his tongue.
“Stop,” she whispered.
“As you must notice, I already have.” His voice was grave.
“Well, now I’ve promised. You can go,” Sadie said with false brightness.
“Can I?” He made no move to leave the room.
His room. Maybe Sadie should sleep in Anstruther’s.
“W-we had a deal.”
“Did we?”
Why was he being so obtuse?
“Yes, we would kiss, and I wouldn’t run away.” Tonight, anyway. She could barely stand up, her heart was racing, and her mind was total mush. How far could she get? She doubted she could find the front door of the Red House at the moment.
“You know we did! I only kissed you to make you go to bed.”
His lips quirked. They were still swollen. “I’d love to go to bed.” He raked her with a look that sent shivers to her toes.
“Well, go on then. Anstruther’s gone off to look for me, as you know, and his room is available.”
“Is it?”
“Stop asking these damnable questions!” she cried. “Go away!”
He shook his head. “I think not. It wouldn’t be wise under the circumstances. Now that you’ve experienced true passion, you might be frightened and renege upon your promise. I’ll stay to comfort and reassure you.”
Ridiculous, wretched man! “I’m not afraid of you or anyone. And passion? Pooh!” Sadie tried to snap her fingers but failed.
“Nevertheless.” He blew the candle out and the room was in full darkness. What the devil would he do next?
And would she let him?