Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right by Kieran Kramer Page A

fraction. “I still don’t trust you. I’m only kissing you to prove I’m more than an adequate kisser. Far more.”
    “How many times have you practiced?”
    “None of your business.”
    “I thought so.” He looked back down at her and caressed her temple with a scratchy thumb. “You are a spinster, through and through. Don’t you believe in having fun?”
    “Not with scoundrels,” she said, feeling prim and prudish even as she insulted him.
    But he didn’t seem to care. He laid her out on the seat, and now his mouth was on hers and she couldn’t get enough of him.
    Never, ever had she felt this way when she’d been kissed. She felt greedy, insatiable.
    So what did it mean?
    She forgot to wonder as he lifted her leg and slipped his hand underneath her gown. He ran that hand over her knee and down her calf. And then he ran his hand almost all the way up her thigh and let it linger there as he kissed her, teasing her mouth open so he could explore her with his tongue in a most intimate, daring fashion.
    Please keep doing what you’re doing, she thought, and it was as if he read her mind. He kept kissing her mouth and caressing her thigh, but then he kneaded her breasts through her bodice with his other hand, running his thumb over her nipples as if they were buttons to play with.
    And then he moved his mouth to the cleft between her breasts. And then—
    And then he did more.
    He nudged aside one side of her bodice with his mouth, moved his lips lower and lower …
    And suckled her breast.
    She had no words for what it felt like. All she knew was that she felt the sharpest twinge of pleasure between her legs the instant his mouth and tongue touched her nipple.
    He was the devil himself to make her feel this way.
    But she wanted it to go on forever, especially when the hand on her thigh began to move closer and closer to her most intimate flesh.
    But he didn’t touch her there. Of course he wouldn’t. That would be shameful, wicked, and altogether—
    Please . Please touch me there, she had the insane thought.
    She clung to him and moaned and ran her fingers through his hair—it was silky and springy and oh-so-thick—and she was dying for him to suckle the other breast.
    And move past her thigh with his nimble fingers.
    Her list of wishes was getting longer, and all because he was the most maddening, tempting man she’d ever encountered.
    But instead he drew back, gently lifting her bodice into place again.
    “We can’t do any more than that at the moment,” he said, his voice low and his pupils dark. “You’re livid with me.”
    “I am?”
    “Yes.” He pulled her up to a sitting position. “It will hit you in”—he paused—“three, two, one—”
    “ Don’t condescend to me.” The sweet pleasure she’d experienced only moments before evaporated, although her breast still tingled. And so did the vulnerable spot between her legs.
    “See? I’m right.”
    She refused to answer. Discreetly, she straightened her spine so as to push out her chest in the hope he’d lean down, pull down her bodice, and kiss her that way again.
    Or brush the tips of her breasts with his hand, at the very least.
    He gave her a lazy smile. “I know what you’re thinking.”
    “Of course you don’t.”
    “Yes I do.” He had a certain gleam in his eye that made her breathless. But then he chucked her under the chin. “We’re here. In fact, we’ve been sitting outside your home for over five minutes.”
    She blushed. “I—I didn’t notice.”
    “Now go inside before your household dies of curiosity. Especially Cook. I’m sure she’s anxious to meet me. Is she ginger-haired?”
    “Yes.”
    “Freckle-faced and snub-nosed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Voice like a foghorn?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tendency to embellish stories … and add too much salt to soups?”
    “Yes, on both counts.”
    “She must be my cook’s twin sister. She told me her twin cooks for a widower and his daughter in London, both of whom are