Free In My Wildest Dreams by Christina Dodd

moment of . . . of . . . well, not passion. It couldn’t be passion between her and the grave Mr. Throckmorton. It just couldn’t.
    He broke the kiss.
    She thought he had set her free. And she had not been completely swept away. Not as long as she’d kept her head enough to not touch him as she wished.
    Then he showed her the true feebleness of her pretext. He gripped her waist and pulled her up onto her toes. Catching her wrists, he brought her palms up and around to cup his neck. Now she embraced him as fully as he embraced her, and she couldn’t—didn’t—remove her hands. Instead she held him, fingers clutching the cloth of his formal coat. Pulling her away from the wall, he bent her over his arm. His chest crushed her breasts, his body enveloped hers with unfamiliar heat.
    He commanded, “Open your lips.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œVery good.” His lips moved on hers as he murmured that praise.
    She could taste him. Because he . . . because he slid his tongue inside her mouth.
    He sampled her as if she were a pastry made especially for him. He acted as if she were cream and sugar, a delectable indulgence. He breathed with her, savored her, filled her with heat and damp and passion.
    She went limp, relying on him to support her, toguide her, to teach her. Because he did all of those things, and superbly.
    Of course. This was Mr. Throckmorton, and he was well known among the servants for his preparation, his knowledge and his patience . . . but Celeste had never heard anyone mention his ardor. Maybe they didn’t talk about it. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe no one knew except her, because she was the only woman to incite him.
    She tried to shake her head. That way lay madness.
    He stopped the movement by catching her chin. He tipped it to the side, baring her throat. His lips slid down, drinking of her skin, raising her expectations and her heart rate. He did things she didn’t know she would like until he did them. He nibbled at her earlobe. He caressed the pulse in her neck. He kissed her collarbone.
    She began to utter little noises. Not words; words required thought and the ability to form coherent sound. These noises were more like hums and moans—pure sensation given voice.
    He rested his lips over her windpipe as if he wished to feel the vibrations, to relish every sensation.
    Finally, he lifted his head.
    Opening her eyes in bewilderment, she could see only him. In the dim light, his gray eyes seemed black, but large and heart-rendingly solemn. He watched her with an intensity that kept her good sense at bay, for he appeared to see in her a precious sustenance—or his dearest love. With the greatest of care, he helped her stand flat and straight. He steadied her with his elbow under her arm and when she still wobbled, he helped her rest her spine against the wall.
    â€œAll right?” he asked.
    â€œYes.” She could barely enunciate, and cleared her throat. “Yes.” That was better. Louder. More normal.
    â€œGood. I’ve arranged to have you placed in this bedchamber, but just for the first two nights. Your room near your students is not yet prepared.”
    He had somehow metamorphosed from the impassioned gallant back to the Mr. Throckmorton she knew, and she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
    Well, relieved, of course. She had no business kissing Mr. Throckmorton. Not because he was the master and she the governess, but because she loved Ellery and always had. She was not so flighty as to think that had changed simply because she enjoyed his brother’s kisses. True, it had been intimate beyond her experience, but society treated a kiss as nothing more than a greeting. So would she.
    A very exhilarating, in-depth greeting.
    When she said nothing, he frowned in concern. “I hope you’ll forgive the oversight.”
    She slithered along the wall, anxious to get away before she