“Eventually,I’d know you’d let me brush your hair behind your ear, curl my handabout your neck and trace the line of your jaw with my thumb. I’dwatch the progress of my touch, and I’d plan to taste your skin, toplace my lips beneath your ear, on your cheek, on your brow. Then,if you allowed me, I’d kiss the length of your scar, the reminderof your bravery and your resourcefulness, of your sorrow and yourfury. I’d be thankful you survived, and even with all the sorrowand grief weighting you down, you flourished. Then I’d lay you downon this settee, and I’d set about living out my fantasies. I’vedreamed about your breasts.”
“You have?”she said, dazed and lust-drunk and wanting him.
He nodded, his gazetrailing over her. “Your dresses button up to your chin, and I’vedriven myself crazy imagining what’s underneath all that fabric. SoI’d lie you back and then torture myself by unbuttoning you slow,revealing your undergarments by inches. They would be fine,wouldn’t they? Made of silk and lace, and so sheer I would be ableto see the shape of your breasts, the outline of your nipples,maybe even their colour. And the feel of them would be better thananything I’d ever touched, but it wouldn’t be better than yourskin, wouldn’t be silkier or softer. So I’d push them aside andfinally, I’d see you and I’d know. Your colour. Your shape. Andthen, I’d know your taste.”
She sat, frozen, thoughshe was also hot and flushed and there was an ache deep inside.Skin pulled tight over his cheekbones, his dark gaze burned hers.“Can I taste you?”
Breathless, shenodded.
Curling his hand aroundthe back of her neck, he drew her to him, his fingers tangling inher hair. She winced at the slight pain, but it only made her achemore, wetting her lips as he drew closer. Gently, he fit his lipsto hers and she sighed into him, relief only momentary before shewanted more. God, so much more. She saw him again under the lightof lanterns, coloured shadows played over the sharpness of hischeekbones and the line of his jaw, and she’d wanted him then, justas she wanted him now.
“Do you likethis?” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes,” shebreathed.
“And this?”His tongue touched jaw.
Inhaling sharply, shenodded.
“And this?” Astring of kisses along her scar, the cord of her neck.
Arching her neck, she bitback a whimper. His hand tightened on her shoulder, and he groanedas he kissed her again.
Her own hands tightenedin her lap. Dear God, she wanted to touch him, to smooth her handsover the muscled roundness of his shoulders, the fascinating bulgeof his biceps, to place her palms on the hard muscles of hischest.
His hands slid to herwaist and he hauled her into his lap. Startled, she grabbed hisshoulders. He groaned.
She let go like he washot coal. “I am sorry.”
“No. Touchme.”
“Are youcertain?”
“Christ,yes.” Covering her hands with his, he dragged her palms to hischest.
Tentatively she spreadher fingers. He was firm beneath her touch, and warm. Hot. Shetraced his collar bone through his shirt, and the hard slab of hischest. He sat still beneath her exploration, his gaze locked uponher as she learned the touch of him. The hands at her waisttightened, digging into her. Raising her head from the fascinatingpath of her hands, she met his gaze. He smiled, that wicked smileshe loved, and she wanted to know the taste of it. So, she kissedhim.
He growled as her lipsmet his, and it took him but a moment to take control. She wasswept away by him, unable to think. She’d never felt such in thewhole of her life. Her head was usually filled with business andthoughts of the next day, but now…. All she could think of was him,what he made her feel.
Somehow, she wasstraddling his lap, her skirts bunched up as she squirmed againsthim. He was hot between her thighs, and hard, and she desperatelywished his trousers and her drawers gone. He kissed her again, andagain, and she was lightheaded with lust, wanting to be closer tohim, wanting to feel his skin against hers,wanting...everything.
Tearing his mouth fromhers, he rested his forehead on her chest. She took great gulps ofair, staring at nothing, her blood a fire within her and arelentless ache consuming her. His harsh breath filled the roommingling with her lighter pants, his chest heaving as he held herto him.
It could have beenminutes or it could have been hours before he pulled from her, hisfingers smoothing her hair behind her ear carefully. Closing hereyes, she leaned into his touch, strangely content even as herheart raced and she ached. She ached so much.
Briefly, he laid his handagainst her cheek and, with a soft groan, lifted her from him.Confusion held her still as he rose, his desire for her clearlyoutlined behind the closure of his trousers. “I should go,” he saidroughly.
“Why?” Shecouldn’t think. She still couldn’t think. Why did he want togo?
He groaned. “This wentfurther than I wanted. You want slow, not a mad rush.”
“How do youknow?” She struggled to make her brain work, still lost to pleasureand the ache. “Maybe I want everything.”
His eyes flared, but thenhe shook his head. “No. I had a plan. You gotta trust me, darlin’.”Hands on his hips, he exhaled, slow and steady. “I’ll be going. Ineed to go.” Striding across the room, he opened the door and heleft. Heleft.
Hope remained on thesettee. Her thoughts were thick and slow, like the molasses towhich her uncle had added his oatmeal. How could heleave?
She shook her head. Hehad wanted her. That had been obvious, and he knew she desiredintercourse between them. Did he not know how much she wanted him?She had made it sound clinical, her desire. Perhaps he didn’t knowhow much she wanted him in her bed.
