The Promise in a Kiss by Stephanie Laurens Page B

strands in his hand until the slack was locked in his fist, poised above her neckline.
    â€œI would much rather be assured,” he murmured, voice deepening to its most dangerous purr, “that every time you wore this piece, you thought of me.”
    He opened his fist, let the pearls fall.
    Weighted by the largest emerald, the strands dropped down her cleavage, slithered between her breasts.
    She gasped at the heat—the heat of his hand held trapped in the pearls.
    â€œI would much rather know that every time you wore this, you thought of us. Of what will be.”
    He hadn’t completely released the necklace; one long finger remained hooked in the strands. Watching the strands, he raised them, then let them slide and slither down, around, caressing her bare breasts in defiance of her gown and chemise—her completely clothed state. Deliberately, he made the pearls rise and fall to a slow, sensuous rhythm, one she could all too readily imagine his fingers themselves following.
    Her lungs had locked; she dragged in a shuddering breath, briefly closed her eyes. Felt her breasts rise, swell, heat.
    He shifted closer—she sensed rather than saw or heard it, felt him like a flame on her skin. She opened her eyes—and fell into the blue of his.
    â€œEvery time you wear these, mignonne, think of . . . this.”
    She hadn’t meant to let him get so close. Hadn’t meant to tip up her face and let him kiss her. But with the intoxicating warmth of him so near, the murmurous sound of his deep voice in her ear, the sense-stealing sensation of the pearls, still warm, still shifting provocatively between her breasts, she was lost.
    His lips closed over hers. At the first hint of pressure, the first demand, she opened to him, not submissively but defiantly, refusing, even now, to surrender.
    She could kiss him and survive, let him kiss her and still not be his. If he thought otherwise, he would learn. Reaching up, she slid her fingers into his hair and boldly kissed him back. Surprised him for a second, but only that.
    His response was unexpected—no suffocating rush of passion, of overwhelming desire. Instead, he matched her, gave her all she wanted, hinted at more. Lured her on.
    She knew it, but resistance was impossible. The only way she could hold on to her self, retain some semblance of awareness and self-will, was to immerse herself in the kiss, give herself over to it and follow his lead, noting each step along the way, knowingly taking each one.
    Within seconds he had taken her from this world. Only he could lead her back.
    Sebastian released the pearls, left them to lie, a faint memory between her bare breasts. Closing his arms about her, he drew her to him, until her soft flesh was once again pressed against his much harder frame. Desire swelled, gnashed like some ravenous beast, wanting more—much more.
    Wanting her beneath him, sheathing him.
    He knew it couldn’t be—not yet. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. He didn’t even dare caress her more definitely, his rake’s instincts warning not yet, not yet.
    She was driving him slowly, steadily, mad. If he didn’t have her soon . . .
    Never had he waited so long; no other woman—none he had desired—had ever denied him. Had ever refused to take the journey with him.
    Yet despite the fact that her body was his, despite the fact that her pulse leaped when he neared, her pupils dilated and her skin warmed the instant he touched her, her mind refused to yield—her will stubbornly stood in his way.
    Every night he went without her only increased his desire, that primitive urge to seize, slake his lust . . . possess.
    Her hands touched his cheeks, framed his face, held it steady as she pressed a flagrantly passionate kiss on him in return for his most recent foray. He felt his control shake, quake, as she teased and taunted him to reply . . .
    He did, for one instant let his shield slip, let