Without missing a beat, Nick set his hands to his thighs, not moving aside from the slight lifting of the corner of his mouth in a small, wry smile. “I heard your sigh, Isabel—your body did not find me at all overly familiar.”

Her eyes widened at the words. “Of all the arrogant … ungentlemanly … things to say!”

He gave a small, almost unnoticeable shrug. “I did warn you of what would happen if you called me Lord Nicholas again.”

Isabel opened her mouth to retort, but found she had nothing to say. She closed her mouth. How frustrating. In novels, the heroine always had something witty to say.

She was no heroine.

She shook her head to clear it of the thought, then stood, squaring her shoulders and pushing past him, taking pleasure in the sound of her skirts brushing against his shoulder where he crouched.

When she was far enough away from him, she turned back.

To find him standing altogether too close.

She froze, immediately nervous as he lifted one hand to her cheek, running his fingertips over the skin there, sending a tremor through her. She was surrounded by the scent of him, a heady combination of brandy and sandalwood and something wonderful that she could not place. She resisted the temptation to close her eyes and breathe him in—to lean into the light touch and encourage him to take the moment further.

What if he did? What then?

Would he kiss her again?

Did she want him to?

She remained utterly still, transfixed by the softness of his touch.

Yes. She wanted him to kiss her.

Her gaze flickered to his, and she willed him to move closer—to repeat his actions from the afternoon.

He could read her thoughts; she knew he could. She could see the flicker of masculine satisfaction in his gaze as he registered her desire … but she didn’t care. As long as he kissed her.

He was so close; it was maddening. She couldn’t bear the waiting—the intense anticipation of a caress that might not come—and she closed her eyes finally, unable to maintain the contact with his intense, knowing blue gaze. Without the benefit of sight, Isabel felt herself begin to sway toward his heat. She knew it was brazen, but there was something about this man that made her forget herself … her past. Everything that she had ever promised she would not become.

“Isabel …” He whispered her name and she resisted the urge to open her eyes for fear of breaking this warm, intimate spell that had been woven around them. Instead, she reveled in the sound of her name on his deep voice as her hands rose of their own volition, just barely touching the coarse fabric of his topcoat—itching to explore the wide expanse of his chest.

He had spoken of life’s pleasures. She wanted him to show them to her.

The light touch seemed to spur him forward, and Isabel sighed as he settled his lips to hers … and she was overcome with a mix of pleasure and relief.

The kiss was softer, less urgent than the one they had shared that afternoon, an exploration of a caress. His hands slid into the hair at the nape of her neck as his lips passed over hers in a feather-light touch once, twice … intoxicating her with sensation. Isabel sighed, her lips parting, and he rewarded her by deepening the kiss, aligning his mouth to hers, and sliding his tongue along her full bottom lip, leaving a path of fire in its wake.

Isabel spread her fingers wide, passing her hands over his broad shoulders and pressing herself against his chest, willing him closer. He understood, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer, into the cradle of his arms, and stroking his tongue against hers before breaking off the kiss to trail his lips across her cheek to her ear where he whispered her name—more sensation than sound—and took the soft lobe between his teeth, worrying the skin there until a shiver of intense pleasure sent her arms around his neck.

She could feel his satisfied smile against her skin as he pressed his lips to the soft spot behind her ear, where her pulse beat in a mad, unbearable rhythm. He rained soft, irresistible kisses down the side of her neck, pausing to scrape his teeth against her skin until she whimpered her pleasure and struggled to remain standing.

He lifted her in his arms then and, without removing his mouth from her neck, returned himself to the large winged chair by the fireplace, and settled her on his lap. He lifted his head, capturing her gaze as if to confirm her willingness to continue. She sighed her approval as he tilted her chin up and returned his mouth to the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder, licking softly, the roughness of his tongue making her wild.

She gasped, and the sound brought his attention back to her mouth. He took her lips again, stroking his tongue past her lips as one hand slid up her side to the edge of her breast. Once there, his hand stilled, and the lack of movement proved to be Isabel’s undoing. Her breast felt infinitely heavier than it ever had, full and wanting in a way that made her desperate for his touch. She wanted his hand on her in a way she had never dreamed of prior to this moment—to this man.

She squirmed then, willing him to move, to touch her, and he lifted his mouth from hers, opening his brilliant blue eyes and capturing her gaze.

“What is it, beauty?” His thumb moved, just barely, but enough for her to know that he knew precisely what she wanted. He was teasing her.

“I—” She couldn’t say it.

The heel of his hand—that wicked hand, so close to where she wanted it—pressed against her and he set his lips to her ear. “So beautiful … so passionate … my very own Voluptas.” The words, more breath than sound, sent an explosion of heat through her. “Show me.”