“No,” she said in a shaky voice. “I am not.” Rosalind tried to control her breathing as she reached for another piece of the orange sponge cake. “Will you try some?” she whispered, holding out a small slice.
Torrington’s hand slid up her stockinged legs to her thigh. He traced a circle with his forefinger before parting his mouth and taking a bite of the cake, his eyes never once leaving hers. Eating the cake from her hands, he licked up every last crumb, tongue gliding along the side of each finger—an unexpectedly, erotic experience—before pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.
“I might swoon,” she said in a rush. “I don’t, usually. But—”
“Breathe, Rosalind.” He brushed his lips gently over hers, claiming her mouth with exquisite care until she was grasping at the collar of his shirt. His mouth moved to trail along the slope of her neck, whispering in French against her skin.
I should have learned how to speak French.
The warmth of his fingers glided through her already damp flesh, teasing at her slit, circling the sensitive nub hidden in her folds. The very same part of herself Rosalind had fumbled over with her own fingers. Her experimentation had never felt like this.
“What about thepain au chocolat?”She choked at the feel of his thumb circling her entrance. “Won’t it be ruined?”
“The fact that you came to me without wearing any underthings is far more important.” His lips fell on hers once more, hungry, and urgent, licking at her mouth, while his fingers—
A whimper left her. “Please. More of that.” Hips tilting forward, Rosalind plucked at his shirt. He wasn’t wearing a cravat, and her fingertips made contact with the heat of his skin. Her hands ran over his chest to his ribs, hesitating at the edge of his trousers.
Torrington’s mouth pulled away. He rested his forehead against hers.
Her hand trailed down from his waist, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric. Curious, Rosalind traced the outline, fascinated at the way he pulsed and twitched beneath her fingers. She wanted to see him. Touch him. She—
Torrington gently pushed her down until her back was against the table, her legs dangling haphazardly off the edge. His free hand trailed down to her breast, toying with the lace at her bodice before running one finger back and forth until her nipple peaked beneath his touch.
Her legs kicked against his. “Please don’t stop,” she moaned.
When he pushed her skirts all the way up her thighs, Rosalind’s eyes fluttered shut. Silence stretched between them. She could feel her arousal, the wetness growing between her thighs intensifying the longer he looked. Embarrassed, she tried to squeeze her legs together, but he stopped her.
“No.” He pressed a kiss to her thigh. “You’re beautiful, my brazen baker. Perfect, in fact. Don’t move. Don’t open your eyes yet.”
The heat of his body disappeared for a moment before returning. She gasped as something warm was dribbled over her skin. The scent of chocolate filled her nostrils.
He’s poured chocolate on me.Another rush of wetness slid between her thighs.
Torrington dribbled a bit more chocolate along her naked hip. His finger painted something there.
“B for Bram,” he growled possessively. Then his mouth fell to her hip, licking and nipping at the chocolate.
Bram.Torrington’s given name.
“Short for Abraham?” She stuttered as his nose nuzzled into the soft hair of her mound.
“Yes.” His reply hummed into her flesh, his tongue flicking out to taste her.
A low sound left her throat, one Rosalind didn’t even know she could make.
He painted more chocolate over her thighs, licking and nipping as he did so, but came no closer to the one part of Rosalind which required his attention. The illustrations in her father’s books had been highly educational, but their descriptions of this act and her imaginings paled in comparison to the reality. Her eyes opened, peeking down at the dark streaks painting her thighs and stomach.
For one thing, no chocolate whatsoever had been mentioned.
Torrington’s dark curls, laced with silver, tumbled over his cheeks as he licked at her skin. “I adore cherries, Rosalind,” he whispered against one plump thigh.
“So you’ve claimed many times.” Her fingers tangled in the silk of his hair.
“They often”—his tongue sank into her wetness—“top the finest desserts.” Torrington’s mouth closed over the tiny aching bud hidden in her folds. The edge of his beard chafed pleasurably along the inside of her thighs.
Rosalind’s back arched off the table, her mind nearly incoherent with pleasure.And all this time I thought it was my nipples he meant when he spoke of cherries.
Curls twisted against her fingers as her hips pushed up. He had such beautiful hair. As marvelous as the rest of him.
