Page 39 of The Courtship Dance

“You must not do it too brown,” she retorted, striving for a light tone.

He reached up and touched her hair lightly with the back of his hand. “It is only the truth.”

His husky voice reverberated through her.

“I—I’m not sure the truth is ever a good idea when one is describing a woman.”

“Not even when her skin is soft and smooth?” he asked, as his knuckles brushed down her cheek. “Or when her lips are perfectly shaped?” He traced his forefinger along the line of her upper lip. “Just waiting to be kissed.”

“You seem quite skilled at this,” Francesca breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. Tendrils of heat were stealing through her, awakening nerve endings all through her body.

“What should I do next?” He lowered his head, so close now that she could feel his warm breath against her cheek, and the delicate touch made her shiver.

“A kiss on the hand is never amiss.”

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, pressing his mouth gently against the back of her hand. Then he turned it over and laid another kiss in her palm. His mouth was warm and soft upon her flesh, and at the touch, the strands of heat that were curling through her tangled and pooled deep in her abdomen.

Still holding her hand, Rochford kissed each fingertip in turn. He looked up at her again, and his dark eyes smoldered. “Would that be pleasing?”

Flooded by new and startling sensations, Francesca could do nothing but stare back at him, her eyes wide and lambent.

He moved closer to her, raising his hand to brush his knuckles down her face again. “Or perhaps this,” he murmured, as he bent and touched his lips to her cheek.

He kissed the ridge of her jaw, and then moved on to the tender skin of her throat. His hand went to her arm, sliding down it, and Francesca was aware of a vague wish that her dressing gown did not lie between her skin and his touch.

Nuzzling her neck, he moved lower, inch by inch, until he reached the collar of her dressing gown. Francesca trembled. Her knees were suddenly weak, and she feared that they might give way at any moment, and she would sink to the ground. She barely held back a soft animal moan as his mouth found the shallow hollow of her throat. Then his tongue crept out and traced the bony ridge around the hollow, and she could not restrain the tiny gasp of surprise and pleasure.

“They say,” he went on, leaving her neck and moving up to hover near her ear, “that some women prefer something like this.” He kissed her ear, then gently closed his teeth around the lobe and worried it.

Francesca swallowed, and involuntarily her hands came up to his chest, clutching the lapels of his coat, holding tightly as her world trembled around her. “Sinclair…”

His tongue traced the whorls of her ear, sending bright shivers of delight through her. She felt her nipples tightening almost painfully, and a pulse started between her legs. She had never felt anything like this before, this eager, thrumming surge of hunger that was spreading through her loins.

Then his hands were at the sash of her dressing gown, untying it, and one hand slid beneath the robe. She felt his palm laid flat against her stomach, only the thin cloth of her chemise separating skin from skin. He slipped his hand up her body until he cupped her breast in his palm.

“A woman might wish something more…like this.” His voice was thick and low; it pulled at her like a physical sensation.

His fingers played across her breast, caressing the nipple so that it turned tauter and harder. Francesca made a soft, inarticulate noise deep in her throat.

“Though no doubt some would hold it far too bold.” His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her chemise and brushed across her bare skin.

Francesca feared that if she had not been holding onto his coat, her knees would have buckled and sent her to the floor.

“Mayhap it would be better…” Sinclair gently guided her to turn so that her back was to him, and he lifted the heavy mass of her hair in one hand, holding it up and away from her neck. He bent and kissed the back of her neck, making his way up the knobbed ridge of her spine, his mouth hot and featherlight, teasing at the sensitive skin.

A shudder shot through her, and Francesca sagged back weakly against his hard chest. His other hand went around her, splaying out over her stomach and pressing her into him. As he kissed the side of her neck, his hand slowly roamed her body, curving over her breasts, then drifting down onto her abdomen, moving ever closer to the seat of her yearning.

She drew in her breath softly, anticipating his touch, imagining his fingers sliding in between her legs. But instead he was turning her back around. She felt as limp and unresisting as a rag doll in his hands.

“Still, all in all,” he murmured as he kissed first one cheek and then the other, “this would be the best thing to do.”

His lips brushed hers, once, twice, and finally settled in. Francesca melted into him, her arms going up around his neck and her mouth opening to the pressure of his lips. His own mouth rocked against hers, pressure and heat increasing, and his tongue moved into her mouth to boldly claim it.

It was the way he had kissed her the other night, and like that other kiss, this one set her body aflame. Her skin felt taut and stretched, tingling all over with a new awareness. Their bodies were pressed together, nothing separating them but their clothes, and she found herself wishing that there was not even that. She wanted to feel his skin upon hers. She wanted, she realized wildly, to rub her body against him.

His arms wrapped around her, and he crushed her to him, his mouth avid on hers. Francesca clung to him, her heart leaping like a mad thing. She was lost in the experience, her senses so bombarded that she could not even name all she felt. She yearned and ached in an inchoate way, filled with a hunger she did not recognize.

He broke from her with a groan, burying his face in her neck. “Francesca. My…” He bit off the rest of his words, and for a moment, there was no sound but that of their ragged breathing.