warnings touched her heart. Her heart told her that she was home.
Rory Beaton was her home.
So when his tongue flicked against her lips, she obeyed the silent prompting and parted. He explored her mouth with shocking carnality. She tasted chamomile and raw spirits, delicious when combined with Channing’s distinctive flavor.
When she moved her tongue against his, he growled encouragement. She did it again and the kiss became an incendiary dance of lips and tongues. A deep pulse pounded in the pit of her stomach, making her feel empty and needy and jumpy. She wriggled to get closer, frantic to ease that hot, painful craving. Every rule she’d lived by tumbled around her like fallen ninepins hit square by the ball. Nothing outside the circle of Channing’s arms mattered. All that mattered was the passion flaring between them, and her need to know more, feel more.
He teased at her lips, nipping and licking and taunting her. She caught on quickly and teased him back until he, the worldly rogue, groaned and gave her more of those long, desperate kisses. As if he perished of thirst in the desert and only Bess offered sweet, fresh water.
She’d told him he made her feel special. When he kissed her as if the world would end if he stopped, he made her feel like a goddess. How could this be wrong?
Shyly, she buried her hands in his thick, silky hair, holding him close for more kisses. He whispered incoherent Scots words of appreciation against her lips and cheeks. The soft burr of his voice turned her bones to molten syrup. Emboldened she stroked his neck and face, feeling the prickling beginnings of his beard on his jaw. Everything he did, everything he was fascinated her.
He rolled her onto her back and surged over her. His mouth traced paths of fire over her face as she looped her hands across his powerful back. He found a spot where her shoulder curved into her neck. Kisses there made her quake, and when he bit down gently, she cried out and clawed at the fine lawn of his shirt.
He rested on one elbow and bent to take her mouth again. She met him unhesitatingly, sliding her fingers into the curls at his nape. He offered such a banquet of different, delightful textures, she hardly knew where to explore next. Somewhere at the back of her mind lurked the certainty that this glorious interval couldn’t last, that she had to wring every drop from this experience while she could.
His kiss was so overwhelming that she didn’t immediately realize that he’d flicked open the buttons descending from her collar. When air brushed her skin, she drew back to see her bodice gaping over her breasts.
“Channing?” she whispered, more in wonder than protest. She knew she should be frightened, but stronger than fear was instinctive trust.
“Rory,” he muttered, sliding a seeking hand under her shift to claim her breast. His palm was warm and confident on her flesh, and when he rolled her nipple between two fingers, heat seared her. The peak tightened with pleasure that verged on pain.
When he slid the frail covering away, his eyes flared at the sight of her bare breast. “You’re so beautiful, you take my breath away.”
Bess knew she should stop him, but the fire in his eyes held her acquiescent as he took that beaded point between his lips. When he drew on her, she caught his head in her hands, pressing him closer. Heat blasted her and she writhed against him, begging for more. She’d never felt like this in her life.
He looked up from her breast and kissed her again. When he slowly drew her skirts up, she murmured consent. He meant sin, but right now, the greater sin was abandoning this passion before she reached its destination.
When he touched her between the legs, she bucked with shock. She greeted his fingers with a hot surge, and whimpered with excruciating need. He was so close to where she ached to feel him.
He lifted his head and regarded her with a searching expression that pierced her soul. She was beyond
Rory Beaton was her home.
So when his tongue flicked against her lips, she obeyed the silent prompting and parted. He explored her mouth with shocking carnality. She tasted chamomile and raw spirits, delicious when combined with Channing’s distinctive flavor.
When she moved her tongue against his, he growled encouragement. She did it again and the kiss became an incendiary dance of lips and tongues. A deep pulse pounded in the pit of her stomach, making her feel empty and needy and jumpy. She wriggled to get closer, frantic to ease that hot, painful craving. Every rule she’d lived by tumbled around her like fallen ninepins hit square by the ball. Nothing outside the circle of Channing’s arms mattered. All that mattered was the passion flaring between them, and her need to know more, feel more.
He teased at her lips, nipping and licking and taunting her. She caught on quickly and teased him back until he, the worldly rogue, groaned and gave her more of those long, desperate kisses. As if he perished of thirst in the desert and only Bess offered sweet, fresh water.
She’d told him he made her feel special. When he kissed her as if the world would end if he stopped, he made her feel like a goddess. How could this be wrong?
Shyly, she buried her hands in his thick, silky hair, holding him close for more kisses. He whispered incoherent Scots words of appreciation against her lips and cheeks. The soft burr of his voice turned her bones to molten syrup. Emboldened she stroked his neck and face, feeling the prickling beginnings of his beard on his jaw. Everything he did, everything he was fascinated her.
He rolled her onto her back and surged over her. His mouth traced paths of fire over her face as she looped her hands across his powerful back. He found a spot where her shoulder curved into her neck. Kisses there made her quake, and when he bit down gently, she cried out and clawed at the fine lawn of his shirt.
He rested on one elbow and bent to take her mouth again. She met him unhesitatingly, sliding her fingers into the curls at his nape. He offered such a banquet of different, delightful textures, she hardly knew where to explore next. Somewhere at the back of her mind lurked the certainty that this glorious interval couldn’t last, that she had to wring every drop from this experience while she could.
His kiss was so overwhelming that she didn’t immediately realize that he’d flicked open the buttons descending from her collar. When air brushed her skin, she drew back to see her bodice gaping over her breasts.
“Channing?” she whispered, more in wonder than protest. She knew she should be frightened, but stronger than fear was instinctive trust.
“Rory,” he muttered, sliding a seeking hand under her shift to claim her breast. His palm was warm and confident on her flesh, and when he rolled her nipple between two fingers, heat seared her. The peak tightened with pleasure that verged on pain.
When he slid the frail covering away, his eyes flared at the sight of her bare breast. “You’re so beautiful, you take my breath away.”
Bess knew she should stop him, but the fire in his eyes held her acquiescent as he took that beaded point between his lips. When he drew on her, she caught his head in her hands, pressing him closer. Heat blasted her and she writhed against him, begging for more. She’d never felt like this in her life.
He looked up from her breast and kissed her again. When he slowly drew her skirts up, she murmured consent. He meant sin, but right now, the greater sin was abandoning this passion before she reached its destination.
When he touched her between the legs, she bucked with shock. She greeted his fingers with a hot surge, and whimpered with excruciating need. He was so close to where she ached to feel him.
He lifted his head and regarded her with a searching expression that pierced her soul. She was beyond
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