I am doomed.”
She made a face that proved pretty girls can turn into the veriest hags at a moment’s notice if they so choose. “I don’t want to kiss you, Harry.”
He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.” Harry strove to sound like an old, trusted friend. “A kiss is simply a kiss. Two mouths meeting. Nothing to fear.”
She appeared to be thinking. “I do kiss my horse sometimes,” she said. “Usually on the nose, but”—she put her hand to her mouth—“once I kissed him on the lips.”
She laughed outright. Some would say in a charming manner.
Not Harry, of course. But he could give her, at the very least, a modicum of a smile. “Kissing a man might be slightly different from kissing a horse,” he said, attempting to match her lighthearted tone.
But her eyes suddenly lost their impish quality. They became stormy. Defiant. Hurt.
Ah, thought Harry. Cedric had either kissed her. Or not kissed her.
He dared not ask which.
“Do it,” Molly said, closing her eyes. “Right now.”
Harry hesitated. He should have known she would try to take him off guard. She always wanted the upper hand.
Very well, then. He would show her who had the upper hand!
And if she had any memories of Cedric’s kisses, he would erase them. Because Harry prided himself on his kissing abilities. Not that he’d ever told anyone that. But still. He’d never left a woman disappointed.
“Ready?” he said.
She nodded, very fast, and squeezed her eyes even tighter shut. Her fists were clenched in her lap so hard her knuckles were white.
He took her by the shoulders and bent forward, wary. But her lips immediately conformed to his. They were soft and cushiony, and despite the fact she’d had brandy mere seconds ago, she tasted sweet, like strawberries. How had a sharp-tongued wench like her managed that?
He gained courage at her passive acceptance of the kiss, although he sensed, and was mildly entertained by, the stiffness of her posture. Praying that she’d not balk—because the chaste kiss they were now sharing wasn’t nearly the kiss a man and his mistress would share at a ribald gathering—he teased her mouth open further.
Harry heard her small intake of breath at the invasion, but he trusted in his kissing skills, pushing farther and farther into the sweet boundaries of her mouth until he sensed himself reacting, really reacting.
And it was because she was responding. She sort of melted into him across the space separating them in the carriage, and he pulled her onto his lap, and he pressed her lower back just so, to settle her.
She was molded perfectly to his body now. She lifted her hand and placed it tentatively around his neck, gripped him, and drew him even closer. One part of his mind was appalled at himself, kissing a girl whom he wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff, and the other demanded that the pleasurable sensations continue.
Of course, the side demanding pleasure won.
And then she said something like, “Mmmmm,” deep in her throat, a wholly unexpected response which took him to the next level of…of need, he supposed. Not that he needed to kiss Molly.
He needed Fiona, the lightskirt to end all lightskirts, whose company he’d been deprived of—thanks to the woman sitting on his lap right now.
Abruptly, he pulled back and took a measured breath.
“Samson,” she murmured, like a baby whose toy has been taken away, and opened her eyes. But they were heavy-lidded, her gaze dreamy.
“What did you say?” His own voice was rough—with irritation, he was sure, brought about by unsated desire for Fiona.
Molly’s eyes widened. “Nothing.” And with a polite, nervous smile, she stumbled backward into the opposing seat.
He didn’t know how to respond. He could have sworn she’d said Samson . Who the bloody hell was he ? Then light dawned. He was playing the Samson to her Delilah. Molly was pretending he was someone else while he
She made a face that proved pretty girls can turn into the veriest hags at a moment’s notice if they so choose. “I don’t want to kiss you, Harry.”
He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.” Harry strove to sound like an old, trusted friend. “A kiss is simply a kiss. Two mouths meeting. Nothing to fear.”
She appeared to be thinking. “I do kiss my horse sometimes,” she said. “Usually on the nose, but”—she put her hand to her mouth—“once I kissed him on the lips.”
She laughed outright. Some would say in a charming manner.
Not Harry, of course. But he could give her, at the very least, a modicum of a smile. “Kissing a man might be slightly different from kissing a horse,” he said, attempting to match her lighthearted tone.
But her eyes suddenly lost their impish quality. They became stormy. Defiant. Hurt.
Ah, thought Harry. Cedric had either kissed her. Or not kissed her.
He dared not ask which.
“Do it,” Molly said, closing her eyes. “Right now.”
Harry hesitated. He should have known she would try to take him off guard. She always wanted the upper hand.
Very well, then. He would show her who had the upper hand!
And if she had any memories of Cedric’s kisses, he would erase them. Because Harry prided himself on his kissing abilities. Not that he’d ever told anyone that. But still. He’d never left a woman disappointed.
“Ready?” he said.
She nodded, very fast, and squeezed her eyes even tighter shut. Her fists were clenched in her lap so hard her knuckles were white.
He took her by the shoulders and bent forward, wary. But her lips immediately conformed to his. They were soft and cushiony, and despite the fact she’d had brandy mere seconds ago, she tasted sweet, like strawberries. How had a sharp-tongued wench like her managed that?
He gained courage at her passive acceptance of the kiss, although he sensed, and was mildly entertained by, the stiffness of her posture. Praying that she’d not balk—because the chaste kiss they were now sharing wasn’t nearly the kiss a man and his mistress would share at a ribald gathering—he teased her mouth open further.
Harry heard her small intake of breath at the invasion, but he trusted in his kissing skills, pushing farther and farther into the sweet boundaries of her mouth until he sensed himself reacting, really reacting.
And it was because she was responding. She sort of melted into him across the space separating them in the carriage, and he pulled her onto his lap, and he pressed her lower back just so, to settle her.
She was molded perfectly to his body now. She lifted her hand and placed it tentatively around his neck, gripped him, and drew him even closer. One part of his mind was appalled at himself, kissing a girl whom he wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff, and the other demanded that the pleasurable sensations continue.
Of course, the side demanding pleasure won.
And then she said something like, “Mmmmm,” deep in her throat, a wholly unexpected response which took him to the next level of…of need, he supposed. Not that he needed to kiss Molly.
He needed Fiona, the lightskirt to end all lightskirts, whose company he’d been deprived of—thanks to the woman sitting on his lap right now.
Abruptly, he pulled back and took a measured breath.
“Samson,” she murmured, like a baby whose toy has been taken away, and opened her eyes. But they were heavy-lidded, her gaze dreamy.
“What did you say?” His own voice was rough—with irritation, he was sure, brought about by unsated desire for Fiona.
Molly’s eyes widened. “Nothing.” And with a polite, nervous smile, she stumbled backward into the opposing seat.
He didn’t know how to respond. He could have sworn she’d said Samson . Who the bloody hell was he ? Then light dawned. He was playing the Samson to her Delilah. Molly was pretending he was someone else while he
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