She lifted her hand and touched his neck—and snatched her hand away almost in the same instant, as though she felt it, too, as he did: the crackling shock darting under the skin to shriek along his nerve endings.
Though he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, Dain saw her puzzled reaction in the periphery of his vision, caught her frown as she studied her hand, discerned her thoughtful glance moving to his neck.
Then, his heart sinking, he perceived the slow upturn of her mouth. She edged nearer, and her right knee slid behind him against his buttock, while her left pressed against his thigh. Then she slipped her right arm round his shoulders and draped her left over his upper chest, and leaned in closer. Her sweetly rounded bosom pressed against his arm while she touched her lips to the too sensitive skin at the corner of his eye.
He kept himself rigid, concentrated hard on breathing steadily, to keep himself from howling.
She was warm and so soft, and the faint apple scent of chamomile swirled like a net about him…as though the slenderly curved body enveloping his weren’t snare enough. She trailed her parted lips down, over his cheek, along his unyielding jaw to the corner of this mouth.
AndFool!he silently berated himself, for daring her, when he knew she could not back away from a challenge and he had never come away unscathed after issuing one.
He had walked into a trap, again, for the hundredth time, and this time it was worse. He could not turn to drink in her sweetness, because that would be yielding, and he would not. He must sit like a granite monolith, while her soft bosom rose and fell against his arm, and while her warm breath, her soft mouth, teased over his skin in brushstroke kisses.
Like a block of stone he remained, while she sighed softly against his ear, and the sigh hissed through his blood. And so he continued, immovable outwardly, wretched inwardly, while she slowly worked loose the knot of his neckcloth and drew it away.
He saw it drop from her fingers and tried to keep his attention on the tangled white fabric at his feet, but she was kissing the back of his neck, and sliding her hand under his shirt at the same time. He couldn’t focus his eyes or concentrate his mind because she was everywhere, a fever coiling over him and throbbing inside him.
“You’re so smooth,” her murmuring voice came from behind him, her breath warm on the nape of his neck while she stroked his shoulder. “Smooth as polished marble, but so warm.”
He was on fire, and her low, foggy tones were oil drizzled upon the flames.
“And strong,” she went on, while her serpent hands went on, too, sliding over taut muscles that tightened and quivered under her touch.
He was weak, a great, stupid ox, sinking into the mire of a virgin’s seduction.
“You can pick me up with one hand,” the throaty voice continued. “I love your big hands. I want them all over me, Dain. Everywhere.” She flicked her tongue over his ear, and he trembled. “On my skin. Like this.” Under his fine cambric shirt, her fingers stroked over his pounding heart. She brushed her thumb over the taut nipple, and his breath hissed out between clenched teeth.
“I want you to do that,” she said, “to me.”
He wanted to, sweet Mother of Jesus, how he wanted to. The knuckles of his tightly fisted hand were white, and his clenched jaw was aching, and those sensations were pure delight compared to the vicious throbbing in his loins.
“Do what?” he asked, willing the syllables past his thickened tongue. “Was I…supposed…to feel something?”
“You bastard.” She pulled her hand away, and he felt one coursing thrill of relief, but before he could draw the next breath, she was scrambling onto his lap, drawing up her skirts as she straddled him.
“You want me,” she said. “I can feel it, Dain.”
She could hardly fail to. There was nothing between hot, aroused male and warm female but a layer of wool and a scrap of silk. His trousers. Her drawers…soft thighs pressing against his. God help him.
He knew what was there, beneath the drawers: a few inches of stocking above her knee, the knot of a garter, the silken skin above. Even the fingers of his crippled left hand twitched.
As though she could read his mind, she lifted that useless hand and dragged it over the rumpled silk of her skirt.
Under, he wanted to cry. The stocking, the garter, the sweet, silken skin…please.
He clamped his mouth shut.
He wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t crawl.
She pushed him back against the sofa cushions and he went down easily. All his strength was focused on keeping the cry from escaping.
He saw her hand move to the ties of her bodice.
“Marriage requires adjustments,” she said. “If it’s a tart you want, I must act like one.”
He tried to close his eyes, but he hadn’t the strength even for that. He was riveted upon her slim, graceful fingers and their wicked work…the tapes and hooks giving way, the fabric slipping down…the swell of creamy flesh spilling from the lace and sagging silk.
“I know my…charms…aren’t as immense as what you’re used to,” she said, pushing the bodice down to her waist.
