Thomas shifted himself atop her, spreading her legs beneath him and devoured her mouth with his kiss.
She wasn’t candy, she wasn’t ice. This woman was sustenance, life. Her mouth tasted of wine, and the scent of her skin wafted over him like springtime.
* * *
Loretta’s emotionsbattled between pleasure and object mortification.
Pleasure was winning.
When she closed her eyes, focused on the sensations his hand aroused, her last misgivings dissolved.
“Yes,” she whispered. She’d felt empty for so long. Dry. Unfulfilled. It was as though Thomas Findlay had been sent to bring her back to life. With each flick of his tongue, stroke of his palm, he sent her blood flowing, coursing through her limbs and into her core.
She’d always wondered if there was more. She’d not wonder after today. She’d know.
There was.
The taut muscles of his arms flexed beneath her hands. She could barely wrap her fingers around half the girth of his arms. Thomas Findlay was not a small man. If she were to fight him, she could do nothing to stop him, but she had no fear. The hands that stroked her held only tenderness.
“So damned beautiful, Duchess.” He didn’t just say the words. He worshiped her with them. And not because she was a duchess, but because he was a man who would starve if not fed.
He consumed her as though his life depended on it.
Loretta arched into him, heady at the sensation of being wanted.
“Open for me, love.” His hand touched her there, cupping her and caressing. When she felt the invasion of his finger, and then two of them, tears threatened to overflow.
Prescott had done his utmost to never touch her that way. He’d only ever taken her in darkness, her gown raised modestly while he moved between her legs.
“What are these? Tears?”
She pinched her eyes closed at his question. He’d halted his assault upon her senses.
“Duchess?”
“Please,” she begged. “Don’t stop.” She couldn’t look at him.
His breath warmed the skin around her eyes. “I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”
His voice held an odd insecurity coming from this giant of a man. It reached inside and inadvertently touched her heart, and when she opened her eyes, she gazed into a troubled expression. She studied the roughened texture of his skin, the small creases around his eyes for a moment before speaking.
“I’m not afraid.” She admitted. He thought he’d been hurting her or scaring her. “I’m… affected.” How could she explain the tumult caused by his seduction?
One corner of his lips lifted in a sardonic, somewhat disparaging grin. “Affected, Duchess? Only affected? I must be doing something wrong. I want you roused to the height of passion. I want you begging me for more.”
He teased her.
Nobody ever teased her.
“Begging you for more, Mr. Findlay?” She lifted one brow. “But that you will be beggingme.” Such boastful words!
But then she pulled his face down and pressed his lips against hers. She wasn’t as graceful in her kiss, as practiced as he, but she sensed he appreciated her efforts. When she slid her tongue past his lips, he sucked it inside of his mouth farther.
She squirmed a bit in frustration, wishing she had the confidence to show him how to touch her. Her lips parted but she lacked the courage to speak her needs.
“Show me,” he goaded, as though reading her mind. “Show me what you want.”
How could she deny his husky command? Not giving herself the opportunity to hold back, she placed her hand on his and raised it to her breast. “Your mouth.” But that he’d understand her wants.
