admirers for survival, nor a highborn lady who needed to maintain a proper reputation in public whatever she might prefer in the bedchamber. No, Sophia made her own way in the world, and didn’t seem to care a fig what anyone else thought of her. Not even he could say that and be entirely truthful.
The lady in question wet her lips, then untucked the white shirt from her trousers. Keeping his seat by sheer force of will, Adam lifted his gaze from her hands to her face. Either garment would be perfectly fine with him, though he had to admit that he’d been imagining her breasts in his hands since before he’d kissed her that morning.
Sending him an amused, aroused glance, Sophia wrapped her hands around the hem of her shirt. In one motion she lifted the material off over her head and dropped it onto the dark blue carpet.
Adam blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She was smooth, pale, and utterly perfect, and she mesmerized him. Her creamy skin made the deep scarlet of her hair even more striking, and his fingers curled as his cock jumped.
“Shall we go again?” she suggested, her breathy voice uneven.
“I think I’ve had enough card play for this evening,” he returned, downing the rest of his brandy in a manner very unfitting for such a fine vintage. “What about you?”
“I agree, as long as we say that I won.”
Things seemed to be going rather well for him, as well, but he nodded. “As a gentleman, I could do no less.”
When she began stacking the cards into a neat pile, though, he decided that he’d had enough with waiting. Standing, Adam leaned across the table to cup the nape of her neck and draw her in for a deep, plundering kiss. Her hands swept over his bare shoulders, and he shoved the table out of the way to close on her.
He cupped her palm-sized breasts in his hands, tilting her face up to continue kissing her. She smelled of lemons, of summer even in the cold winter of Yorkshire. And she wore damned trousers.
The dogs had settled on the thick rug before the hearth, so Adam swept an arm beneath her knees and carried her over to the deep couch. He knelt on the cushions between her legs to unbutton those trousers. As he did so, Sophia sat up and leaned in, licking his left nipple. The contact jolted into him like lightning.
This was the difference, he decided as he opened the last button and tugged the trousers down her hips, between a lover and a mistress. There was no formal arrangement, no promise of exclusivity or even discretion. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Nothing else signified. And considering the path he needed to take this holiday, Sophia White might well be the last lover he ever had. A married man, if he cheated on his wife, did so with a mistress. He’d be a fool to risk a lover with no rules or indebtedness to him, and he was not a fool.
“Don’t rip them,” she said, grinning breathlessly as she lifted her hips. “I have to give them back.”
“I think you should keep them.”
Finally he got the trousers down to her thighs and shifted backward to pull them off past her knees and over her feet. Moving over her again, he took one of her breasts in his mouth, flicking across her nipple with his tongue.
She moaned, digging her fingers into his hair and arching her back and rendering his own trousers entirely too tight. Clearly Sophia was no virginal miss, but he hadn’t expected her to be one. And that didn’t matter. Of far more interest was the way she pulled him up to kiss him again, and then reached between them to begin unfastening his trousers.
“So tell me,” she said, shoving down his buckskins and then stroking a forefinger lightly down the length of him, “would you have stripped if you’d lost that last hand?”
His eyes practically rolled back in his head at her touch. For a moment he fought for control, refusing to give in before he’d had her. “I was ready to strip regardless,” he returned in a voice that sounded
The lady in question wet her lips, then untucked the white shirt from her trousers. Keeping his seat by sheer force of will, Adam lifted his gaze from her hands to her face. Either garment would be perfectly fine with him, though he had to admit that he’d been imagining her breasts in his hands since before he’d kissed her that morning.
Sending him an amused, aroused glance, Sophia wrapped her hands around the hem of her shirt. In one motion she lifted the material off over her head and dropped it onto the dark blue carpet.
Adam blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She was smooth, pale, and utterly perfect, and she mesmerized him. Her creamy skin made the deep scarlet of her hair even more striking, and his fingers curled as his cock jumped.
“Shall we go again?” she suggested, her breathy voice uneven.
“I think I’ve had enough card play for this evening,” he returned, downing the rest of his brandy in a manner very unfitting for such a fine vintage. “What about you?”
“I agree, as long as we say that I won.”
Things seemed to be going rather well for him, as well, but he nodded. “As a gentleman, I could do no less.”
When she began stacking the cards into a neat pile, though, he decided that he’d had enough with waiting. Standing, Adam leaned across the table to cup the nape of her neck and draw her in for a deep, plundering kiss. Her hands swept over his bare shoulders, and he shoved the table out of the way to close on her.
He cupped her palm-sized breasts in his hands, tilting her face up to continue kissing her. She smelled of lemons, of summer even in the cold winter of Yorkshire. And she wore damned trousers.
The dogs had settled on the thick rug before the hearth, so Adam swept an arm beneath her knees and carried her over to the deep couch. He knelt on the cushions between her legs to unbutton those trousers. As he did so, Sophia sat up and leaned in, licking his left nipple. The contact jolted into him like lightning.
This was the difference, he decided as he opened the last button and tugged the trousers down her hips, between a lover and a mistress. There was no formal arrangement, no promise of exclusivity or even discretion. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Nothing else signified. And considering the path he needed to take this holiday, Sophia White might well be the last lover he ever had. A married man, if he cheated on his wife, did so with a mistress. He’d be a fool to risk a lover with no rules or indebtedness to him, and he was not a fool.
“Don’t rip them,” she said, grinning breathlessly as she lifted her hips. “I have to give them back.”
“I think you should keep them.”
Finally he got the trousers down to her thighs and shifted backward to pull them off past her knees and over her feet. Moving over her again, he took one of her breasts in his mouth, flicking across her nipple with his tongue.
She moaned, digging her fingers into his hair and arching her back and rendering his own trousers entirely too tight. Clearly Sophia was no virginal miss, but he hadn’t expected her to be one. And that didn’t matter. Of far more interest was the way she pulled him up to kiss him again, and then reached between them to begin unfastening his trousers.
“So tell me,” she said, shoving down his buckskins and then stroking a forefinger lightly down the length of him, “would you have stripped if you’d lost that last hand?”
His eyes practically rolled back in his head at her touch. For a moment he fought for control, refusing to give in before he’d had her. “I was ready to strip regardless,” he returned in a voice that sounded
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