Nia couldn’t help herself.
Forgetting all notions of what was proper and what was not, she turned, raising one leg while adjusting her skirts, and faced Jasper, seated on his lap.
Was that her gasp or his?
To sit like this, with one knee on each side of his thighs, was nowhere close to being appropriate.
But she wanted to comfort him. He’d lost the one constant in his life and been left with a burden of guilt over the last words they’d shared.
And she was learning that intimacy was a language Jasper understood.
His hands landed on her waist, and he met her gaze.
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed his shoulders. “I’m sorry you lost your mother but I’m also sorry you lost your father.” His father must have been a good man. He’d simply been desperate. And confused. It was quite apparent that he’d never gotten over loving Jasper’s mother.
Jasper blinked but didn’t look away. “It was a long time ago.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’m still sorry.”
The one time Jasper had actually kissed her, it had been for practical reasons. And even though he’d touched her intimately, he had not kissed her for the sake of kissing her.
She lowered her gaze to his mouth and licked her lips.
“Can I kiss you?” she asked. Because part of the emphasis of their bargain was agreement.
Her question sent little lights dancing in his eyes, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he dipped his chin. “You may.” His voice was low, almost gravelly.
His thighs felt hard beneath hers, and his shoulders were strong beneath her hands. Without doing so intentionally, she shifted along his manly member and it grew increasingly prominent between them.
And when her lips met his, they too were hard.
At first.
But when she touched her tongue to the seam of his mouth, it softened. And when it parted, he welcomed her.
One of his hands moved up her back and the other clutched her hip. She tilted her head and took full advantage of this opportunity to taste him.
Slowly, and without any embarrassment or guilt.
She couldn’t identify the spices that made up his scent and flavor, and yet she recognized them. She romantically imagined they’d been blended to her liking. Just as the contours of his body had been formed to match perfectly to hers.
His tongue danced with hers, asserting itself, pinning it, sucking in, and then retreating. The kiss was a buffet of experimentation. He was the host, the mentor, and she, the visiting student.
One of his hands snaked around her waist and the other settled just below her breasts. A sixth sense deep inside compelled her to trust him. And in trusting him, she wanted more. It permeated her with a knowing.
This was a turning point. To where, and why, she wasn’t sure.
She covered his hand with hers and urged it higher. She wanted to feel his touch there. She more than wanted it; she ached for it.
A moan vibrated his throat as he followed her lead. Without breaking their kiss, he cradled the tender flesh, and then his fingers massaged her, kneading, squeezing. All the while her hand covered his, and she encouraged him, urging him on without knowing the extent of her own desire.
“What are you doing to me?” His voice was low, half-whisper, half-growl.
Nia barely comprehended his words.
“I’m not doing anything,” she said.
By now, his staff, safely tucked in his breeches, prodded her center from below. What did she want?
