Prince Of Dreams by Lisa Kleypas

closing gently on the soft curve. He possessed her mouth with slow, seeking kisses, pausing to brush his lips over her eyebrows, her temples, her cheeks. His hand played lightly in her hair, pushing the red curls aside to bare her neck.
    Emma shivered at the new sensation. His mouth moved softly over her throat, exciting her nerves, seeming to draw a flush of heat up to the surface of her skin. Gradually she lifted her arms around his neck. Never in her life had she been so aware of a man, the hard body beneath the snowy white shirt, the muscles filled with crushing strength. It was wrong to be here with him, wrong to feel his lips and hands caressing her. But it seemed the perfect act of rebellion against her father, against her unfaithful lover, against all the people who had ever called her an eccentric or a wallflower. Why not let Nikolas make love to her? Her virginity was hers to give—it no longer mattered, since she had lost the one man she had ever wanted. Perhaps this was a sin, but there was undeniable pleasure in it.
    Emma raised her hands to his beautiful hair, the tawny locks springing like coarse silk beneath her fingers. At her hesitant touch, he took a sharp breath and pulled her closer, stretching along the settee until they were matched together. Emma pressed close to him, wanting friction, pressure, his masculine weight bearing down upon her. His kisses became longer, deeper, changing from question to demand.
    She made no protest as Nikolas unfastened her shirt. The garment parted in front, and his hand slipped inside, fingertips spread wide as they traced the smoothness of her stomach. She had never dreamed a man's touch could be so tender, so reverent. The heat of his palm covered her breast, fitting over the soft roundness. Her nipple contracted and ached sweetly from the warmth. Opening her eyes, she found his gaze locked with hers.
    All at once she was startled by the lack of emotion in the bright yellow depths of his eyes. They were as intent as a tiger's, devoid of emotion. Even now, in this intimacy, his heart and soul were still locked away. She felt the need to reach him, to make him vulnerable somehow. Her fingers trembled as she began to unbutton his shirt. Carefully she eased the white linen from his shoulders. Her gaze swept over his torso…over the pattern of raised scars and burn marks.
    Even though Emma had known what to expect, had seen the scars as a child, she was still astonished by the legacy of his torture in Russia. Before that, his body must have been beautiful, a work of smoothly sculpted muscle and gleaming golden skin. How strong he must have been to survive such pain. Nikolas held still beneath her gaze, waiting without shame or self-pity for her reaction. She wished for some way to tell him of her compassion and understanding, but there were no words. Instead she leaned forward with deliberate slowness, and held her mouth against the scar at his throat.
    Nikolas clenched his fists while Emma's lips pressed on his skin and her hair flowed over him in a blanket of fire. Some women had been repulsed by his scars, some had been excited by them, but no one had ever shown him such a gesture of tender acceptance. His muscles tensed and knotted. He wanted to shove her away, and at the same time he wanted to hold her close until he crushed her. All his life he had feared nothing, not pain, not even death, but this gentle closeness gave him his first taste of terror.
    His voice emerged in a rasping whisper. “Damn you, don't be kind to me.”
    Emma stared at him, her eyes like blue smoke. “I'm not being kind.” She lowered her head to his neck once more, and followed the path of the scar to his collarbone.
    Nikolas wrenched away in a powerful movement, coming to his feet beside the settee.
    For a second Emma thought he was leaving her, but then he extended a hand. She hesitated before taking it. “It's all right,” he said softly.
    As if she were an outside observer, Emma watched