The Irish Devil by Diane Whiteside Page B

cornbread.
    Whenever she finished a bite, the next one waited for her. She was held in a world defined by his voice in her ears and his fruit wending its way through her mouth and deep into her belly.
    She opened for the next morsel and his mouth captured hers. He played with her, as if the kiss was a game to explore her shapes and textures and taste. Caught off balance as she was, it felt completely natural to yield to his caress.
    Viola moaned when his tongue first delved deep. Her hand came up to pull his head closer. She threaded her fingers into his hair’s thick silk, fondling him. He growled softly and kissed her harder.
    It seemed but an instant later when she came up for air and found herself lifted high in his arms. “Mr. Donovan,” she protested, but it sounded rather more like a plea.
    He glanced down at her. “Do you want to kiss me again, sweetheart?”
    Viola gaped at him. “What did you say?”
    “Like this.” His mouth swooped down and she was lost again in a world of sweet sensation.
    She blinked when he stopped, and slowly opened her eyes. She was in a small bathroom of very simple but modern design. Donovan stood directly in front of her, his big hands lightly caressing her shoulders. His touch sent quivers running through her skin and a hot flush up her throat.
    “Be quick about it, sweetheart.” He dropped a kiss on her hair and left. Viola shook herself for a few moments, trying to regain control, then obeyed him.
    She came out shyly and found herself in a very elegant and simply equipped bedroom. The mahogany furnishings were sturdily built in a style suited to a gentleman of considerable means but discreet tastes. The walls wore a smooth white plaster coat and massive wooden beams supported the ceiling. Persian carpets flowed across the tile floor, while heavy cream brocade draperies covered the high windows. The linens were of the highest quality, with a silken coverlet draping the bed. The light, sweet scent of China roses and sage drifted in from the courtyard beyond.
    But Viola paid very little attention to these elegancies. Instead her gaze was riveted upon the man himself. She’d been too nervous to consider his clean-limbed frame before. Now, the sight of him struck her like a thunderbolt. He had stripped off his shirt and was even now placing it on the campaign chest at the foot of the bed, revealing his bare back. Muscles rippled, bisected by the strong line of his spine until it vanished beneath his trousers. Oh happy woolen cloth, to envelop a firm masculine derrière such as his.
    Her mouth went dry. She swallowed and tried to say something, anything.
    “Sweetheart.” He faced her with a single raised eyebrow. His chest was bare, except for a cross and two medals hanging from a gold chain around his neck. She stared, caught by strength as firmly defined as any sculptor’s work.
    Viola ran her tongue over her lips. “Mr. Donovan,” she croaked.
    “Sweetheart.” His voice was deeper and closer to her. Those elegant brown nipples moved with every breath he took. She shook a little, unable to look away, while her own breasts heated.
    He tilted her face up with one finger. “Sweetheart, do you want to kiss my chest again, so soon after this afternoon’s dalliance?”
    Her gaze shot up to his face. She quivered at the amused warmth in his eyes as he caressed her cheek with that callused finger.
    “It sounds an amiable pastime to me,” he drawled, and she swallowed hard. Heat glowed deep in her belly at the thought of touching him again.
    “But for now I prefer the delight of fondling you,” he finished. He swirled his tongue over her lips and she quivered, reminded of his gentle play with the orange. Donovan probed the seam between her lips and teased her teeth.
    Viola yielded her mouth with a sigh. His hand slipped behind her head, supporting her while he took his pleasure, deep and long. Her senses shimmered, then focused only on what he was doing, here and now.
    He