hunger.
He immediately stilled her fingers as they gently brushed the buttons of his gray silk waistcoat.
“Wrong paddock,” he whispered softly and put her from him.
Mortified by his incorrect assumption, she took a step back. But he followed her, his eyes hard and fixed on her. Without knowing, she found herself backed against a towering oak. He reached for her face, and she swallowed. Yet it was not a caress he sought to give. With gentleness, he disengaged the long forgotten itchy black wig from her head. “This is a goddamn travesty,” he murmured, while he pulled the pins from her hair, which she’d tried to flatten and hide. In silence he worked until he extracted the last pin and then he ran his fingers through her loosened locks to massage her aching scalp. It was all she could do not to moan with gratitude.
“I’m very sorry for involving you in that awful scene at St. George’s,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t matter. You can’t say I was surprised,” he replied. “Weddings do have the damnedest effect on you.”
She wanted to weep for his magnanimous attitude. The gentlemen she knew would have rung a peal for involving them in such a shameful scene.
He stroked her cheeks while he cradled her head, heat gathering in his pale eyes, darkening them. One thumb dropped slightly to caress her slightly parted lips. Her breath caught.
And in the blink of an eye his expression changed—his shuttered expression gave way just the merest bit. He cursed softly and leaned his forehead against hers.
She lowered her gaze only to find his great chest drawing in air repeatedly. He seemed to be fighting some sort of decision.
And then, all at once, he closed the distance and dipped down. She could feel his harsh exhalation on her cheek as his lips found hers, and a feeling of intense awareness of the man holding her rushed through her. He bent his knees and shifted his powerful arms to gather her close—his broad chest pressed against her breasts, causing an ache within her.
He groaned and held her as if to provide shelter from a tempest; as if he would guard her with his life.
Dear God above. He was kissing her—not like the show in church, or her tentative gesture of tenderness. This was a transferal of emotion.
His mouth teased hers with unforgettably tender yet masculine thoroughness; tasting her, caressing her lips until she relinquished all control. He nipped at the seam of her lips and instinctively she opened to him—making herself vulnerable to him for the first time. His tongue twined with her own while his hands pulled the small of her back more tightly against his strong body. His hands swept lower to cup her bottom more firmly to him, making her very aware of an immense ridge pressing against her.
She was overwhelmed by the raw passion coursing between them. Never had she felt such white heat. But then again, she had only ever been kissed twice in her life—and never had it involved such raw carnality. This was not a proper kiss. This was everything forbidden to a virtuous female. It was everything she should run from. Her feet refused to move.
He had sworn not to do this. His tightly banked desire and emotions were not ever to run amok. He lived by a simple, rigid code of conduct, and he would not be swayed. And yet…this tall glass of femininity was dissolving every single last one of his solid rules. It appalled him how easily she got under his skin; the ache in his ballocks radiated, setting every bloody inch of him on fire for her.
It had been decades since he’d truly tasted a woman’s lips. A joining of the essential parts when he chose, yes. But this. This taste of everything delicious was the very thing that could lead to ruination.
Christ, she was so sweet, so innocent, and she unleashed a ravenous hunger for tenderness, for touch,for taste, for something so primal and so necessary. For something he refused to acknowledge.
He crushed her to him, reveling in her clean,
He immediately stilled her fingers as they gently brushed the buttons of his gray silk waistcoat.
“Wrong paddock,” he whispered softly and put her from him.
Mortified by his incorrect assumption, she took a step back. But he followed her, his eyes hard and fixed on her. Without knowing, she found herself backed against a towering oak. He reached for her face, and she swallowed. Yet it was not a caress he sought to give. With gentleness, he disengaged the long forgotten itchy black wig from her head. “This is a goddamn travesty,” he murmured, while he pulled the pins from her hair, which she’d tried to flatten and hide. In silence he worked until he extracted the last pin and then he ran his fingers through her loosened locks to massage her aching scalp. It was all she could do not to moan with gratitude.
“I’m very sorry for involving you in that awful scene at St. George’s,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t matter. You can’t say I was surprised,” he replied. “Weddings do have the damnedest effect on you.”
She wanted to weep for his magnanimous attitude. The gentlemen she knew would have rung a peal for involving them in such a shameful scene.
He stroked her cheeks while he cradled her head, heat gathering in his pale eyes, darkening them. One thumb dropped slightly to caress her slightly parted lips. Her breath caught.
And in the blink of an eye his expression changed—his shuttered expression gave way just the merest bit. He cursed softly and leaned his forehead against hers.
She lowered her gaze only to find his great chest drawing in air repeatedly. He seemed to be fighting some sort of decision.
And then, all at once, he closed the distance and dipped down. She could feel his harsh exhalation on her cheek as his lips found hers, and a feeling of intense awareness of the man holding her rushed through her. He bent his knees and shifted his powerful arms to gather her close—his broad chest pressed against her breasts, causing an ache within her.
He groaned and held her as if to provide shelter from a tempest; as if he would guard her with his life.
Dear God above. He was kissing her—not like the show in church, or her tentative gesture of tenderness. This was a transferal of emotion.
His mouth teased hers with unforgettably tender yet masculine thoroughness; tasting her, caressing her lips until she relinquished all control. He nipped at the seam of her lips and instinctively she opened to him—making herself vulnerable to him for the first time. His tongue twined with her own while his hands pulled the small of her back more tightly against his strong body. His hands swept lower to cup her bottom more firmly to him, making her very aware of an immense ridge pressing against her.
She was overwhelmed by the raw passion coursing between them. Never had she felt such white heat. But then again, she had only ever been kissed twice in her life—and never had it involved such raw carnality. This was not a proper kiss. This was everything forbidden to a virtuous female. It was everything she should run from. Her feet refused to move.
He had sworn not to do this. His tightly banked desire and emotions were not ever to run amok. He lived by a simple, rigid code of conduct, and he would not be swayed. And yet…this tall glass of femininity was dissolving every single last one of his solid rules. It appalled him how easily she got under his skin; the ache in his ballocks radiated, setting every bloody inch of him on fire for her.
It had been decades since he’d truly tasted a woman’s lips. A joining of the essential parts when he chose, yes. But this. This taste of everything delicious was the very thing that could lead to ruination.
Christ, she was so sweet, so innocent, and she unleashed a ravenous hunger for tenderness, for touch,for taste, for something so primal and so necessary. For something he refused to acknowledge.
He crushed her to him, reveling in her clean,
Similar Books
