Wanting what?
She whimpered, a sound of frustration, then whispered his name. “Nicholas!”
“What do you want, Bethie? Tell me.” His mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, nipped, licked, sucked.
Something deep in her belly clenched. Damp heat gathered inside her, spread between her thighs. She felt heavy, hot, on fire. “More!”
“Is this what you want?” He traced her lips with his tongue, thrust intimately into her mouth. Her lips were swollen and aching beneath his. Then he broke the kiss. Gazing knowingly into her eyes, he traced a lazy line on her collarbone with his thumb. “Tell me, Bethie.”
“I—I dinnae know what I want!” She panted, breathless and desperate.
His hand stroked her wet hair as his lips brushed her cheek. “Do you trust me?”
Did she trust him? After all he’d done to help her and Belle? After he’d nearly died to save them? After he’d watched her bathe in the creek when he’d promised not to? “Aye. Mostly.”
He chuckled softly, then nipped her throat, ran his tongue over the whorl of her ear. “Have I ever hurt you?”
She shivered. “N-nay.” The word came out as a moan.
“Then let me bring you pleasure. Let me touch you. Only tell me to stop, and I will.” He nibbled her earlobe, drew it into the heat of his mouth.
Let me touch you.
Dark memories pricked at the back of her mind—memories of groping hands, of pain, of humiliation. But there were other memories as well, memories of tenderness, of kisses so potent they stole her breath, made her pulse quicken, made her blood burn.
He was not Richard. He was not Andrew.
He was Nicholas.
Could it be different? Could a woman enjoy lying beside a man? Could she enjoy his hands upon her?
She wanted to know. She needed to know.
She met his gaze, felt herself begin to tremble, anticipation and apprehension twined together in her belly. “Aye, Nicholas. Please!”
Chapter 15
Her whispered words unleashed a maelstrom inside Nicholas. He wanted to release the fire inside her, to bury himself in her silken heat, to devour her. He wanted to claim her, make her forget she’d ever been touched by another man.
But he could feel the conflict within her. The ardor of her body’s response told him she wanted him, but the wariness in her eyes proved she was still afraid.
He brushed his lips over hers, kissed the corners of her mouth, forced himself to rein in his own need, to go slowly. “You are beautiful, Bethie. Do you know that?”
He didn’t give her time to answer, but took her lips in a deep, languid kiss, using his tongue to make her forget fear, forget doubt, forget everything but his touch.
She moaned into his mouth—not in fear, but desire.
He took her breath into his lungs, pressed the kiss deeper, rested his palm over her heart. It beat like the wings of a frightened bird. “You’ve nothing to fear, Bethie. Tell me what you want, whatever you want. It’s yours.”
She whispered his name, arched against his touch, her body telling him what she seemingly could not.
He brushed the valley between her breasts with the back of his knuckles once, twice, three times, felt her heartbeat quicken even more. Then he slid his hand beneath the thin, damp fabric of her shift, caressed the soft underside of her breast, his palm brushing lightly over her nipple on the way.
She gasped, one quick intake of breath, arched again, her nipples already drawn into tight, blushing buds.
“So soft.” He continued to caress the naked silk of her breast, to mold its delicious fullness in his palm.
She had begun to tremble, to writhe in his arms, one hand fisted in the soft furs, the other pressed against his chest.
