“You don’t want to do this,” she said.

“Oh, I do. I really do.”

But he didn’t. She knew that he didn’t, and she could feel her heart breaking because she did. She wanted him to kiss her like she was the only woman he could ever dream of kissing, like he’d die if he didn’t touch his lips to hers.

She wanted him to kiss her and mean it.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, edging back a step.

“Is that what you think?” he murmured.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Just enough to make this perfect.”

She blinked. She didn’t have a clue what that meant.

“Come now, Billie,” he mocked. “Why so hesitant? That’s not like you.”

“This isn’t like you,” she countered.

“You have no idea.” He came even closer, his eyes glittering with something she was terrified to define. He reached out and touched her arm, just one finger to her flesh, but it was enough to make her tremble. “When have you ever backed down from a dare?”

Her stomach was flipping and her heart was pounding, but still her shoulders fell into a stiff, straight line. “Never,” she declared, staring him straight in the eye.

He smiled, and his gaze grew hot. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

“I’m not—”

“You will be,” he growled, and before she could utter another word, his mouth captured hers in a searing kiss.

Chapter 17

He was kissing her.

It was the very definition of madness.

He was kissing Billie Bridgerton, the last woman in the world he should ever dream of wanting, but by God, when she’d glared up at him, and her chin had trembled and jutted out, all he could see were her lips and all he could smell was her scent.

And all he could feel was the heat of her skin beneath his fingers, and he wanted more. More of that.

More of her.

His other hand came around her with stunning speed, and he wasn’t thinking, he couldn’t be thinking. He just pulled her up against him, hard, and then he was kissing her.

He wanted to devour her.

He wanted to own her.

He wanted to fold her into his arms and hold her tight and kiss her until she finally saw sense, until she stopped doing crazy things and stopped taking crazy risks, and started behaving the way a woman ought while still being her and—

He couldn’t think. His thoughts were jumbled, torn to bits by the sheer heat of the moment.

More . . . his mind was begging. More was the only thing that made any sense to him. More of this. More of Billie.

He captured her face in his hands, holding her still. But she wasn’t still. Her lips were moving beneath his, kissing him back with the sort of fervor that was exactly Billie. She rode hard and she played hard and by God she kissed the same way, like he was her triumph and she was going to glory in it.