Thunder and Roses by Mary Jo Putney

the current game.
     
    “It’s fortunate that we’re not playing for any stakes,” she observed. “You would have beggared me by now.”
     
    Generous in victory, he said, “For a beginner, you’re doing very well, Clare. You’ve narrowed the gap with every game. With practice, you could turn into a billiards sharp yourself.”
     
    She was absurdly pleased, even though it was a disgraceful kind of compliment. “Shall we play another game?”
     
    The mantel clock began striking the hour. Glancing over to it, she said with surprise, “Eleven o’clock already.” The day was almost over, and the moment of truth was at hand. Clare’s relaxed mood evaporated instantly.
     
    In the vain hope that he might not remember that he was entitled to a kiss, she said, “Time to retire. I’ve a great deal to do tomorrow—go into Penreith and find a cook, arrange for you to visit the pit, make sure that my friend Marged is managing all right with the school. All kinds of things.”
     
    She set her cue stick on the rack and turned toward the door. Before she could take a step, Nicholas’s cue shot straight out, the hard tip banging into the wall beside her and barring her exit. He drawled, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
     
    She flinched. “I haven’t forgotten. I was hoping you had.”
     
    He was watching her with the expression of a charming predator. “Not when I’ve been waiting for my kiss all day.”
     
    He lowered the cue and stepped forward. When he raised his arm she skittered back, then felt like a fool when she saw that he was only returning his stick to the rack.
     
    When he had done so, he turned a thoughtful gaze on her. “Is being kissed by me such a terrible prospect? I’ve never had any complaints in the past. Quite the contrary.”
     
    Her back was to the wall and she couldn’t retreat any farther. “Just go ahead and do it,” she said tightly.
     
    Sudden insight lit his eyes. He put his hand under her chin and raised it so that she was looking directly at him. “Clare, have you never been kissed with … with amorous intent?”
     
    Unable to deny the humiliating fact, she said flatly, “No man has ever wanted to.”
     
    In this, as in billiards, he was generous, not ridiculing her inexperience or her fear. “I guarantee that there are men who have dreamed of kissing you, but you intimidated them so much that none dared try.” He began stroking her lips with his thumb. “Relax, Clarissima. My aim is to persuade, not terrorize.”
     
    His rhythmic movements were profoundly sensual, and the effect was even more unsettling than when he had released her hair the day before. Her lips softened and parted slightly, and instinctively she touched her tongue to his thumb. She tasted salt and maleness, then flushed in embarrassment when she recognized the forwardness of her behavior.
     
    Ignoring her subtle withdrawal, he said,
     
    “If this is a first kiss, I’ll start simply. After all, we have three months ahead of us.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and bent his head.
     
    Her face tightened as she steeled herself for his onslaught. But instead of kissing her mouth, he pressed his lips to the tender skin at the base of her throat.
     
    Clare gasped as her pulse beat against the seductive pressure of his mouth. She had thought herself prepared, but she found that she had no defenses against this unexpected caress. Heat and a hint of moisture; melting sensations that flowed downward, weakening her and throbbing in secret, shameful places.
     
    “Your skin is lovely,” he murmured as his lips traced the sensitive junction between throat and shoulder. “Celtic silk, smooth and alluring.”
     
    She felt that she should be doing something, but had no idea what. Hesitantly she laid her hands on his waist, feeling taut muscles beneath the luxurious cambric of his shirt.
     
    He exhaled warm, teasing breath into her ear, then lightly nipped the lobe, his teeth an erotic