Page 112 of The Heiress's Daughter
He made a low humming noise deep in his throat and sucked on her full lower lip. Her legs trembled, suddenly weak. She clutched at his shoulders with urgent fingers.
He ran his hands slowly up from her hips, caressing her waist, and cupped her breasts lightly. They seemed to swell under the caress. Her nipples, under the layers of fabric, were hard, aching little points. He rubbed his thumb against them and she gasped as heat rippled through her, pooling deep in her belly.
He ran his hands along her spine, and she felt his long, warm fingers at the back of her dress. She shivered. He was unhooking her.
“You can’t see this part of you, so pale and satin-velvet it is, but I’ve been dying to do this every time I’ve met you. Every single time. And now…” Turning her back to the looking glass, he bent and kissed the nape of her neck, his mouth warm and faintly moist against her skin. Shivers of pleasure ran through her. She arched back against him. The heat of his body soaked into her.
He swiftly removed the pins from her hair, his fingers skillful and experienced. He moved her slightly to catch the last rays of sun. “Your hair is like a soft cinnamon cloud, a thousand colors in the setting sun.”
She gazed out of the window at the gleaming rose-gilt of the sun piercing the lowering clouds. A whisper of breeze shivered through the leaves of the trees outside the window, making them dance.
“And the fragrance…” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. “You always smell deliciously of roses.”
“I make a rinse from rose petals,” she mumbled. She was barely able to muster a sentence: his caresses and low, murmured love-speech were washing over her, leaving her weak and dizzy with desire.
She felt her dress slide from her shoulders and pool at her hips. “Even your shoulders are lovely, so smooth and round and creamy soft,” he murmured, kissing them. Warm shivers flowed into her wherever his mouth touched.
She watched him in the mirror, entranced by his intense expression, his almost fierce concentration on her. Just her.
He smoothed big hands slowly down her body—she felt them every inch of the way. When her dress dropped to the floor, she was barely aware of it. Without thinking she stepped out of it. He bent and whisked it away, tossed it carelessly over the back of the chair on top of his coat, and slipped his arms back around her.
Clad now only in her fine linen chemise, very aware that beneath it she was quite naked, she turned in the circle of his arms, slipped her hands around his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
Chapter Seventeen
He pulled her closer so that she was pressed against his strong, heated body. Thigh to thigh, breasts to chest. Excitement shimmered through her as his mouth covered hers, tender yet passionate. And possessive.
He tasted of…she couldn’t think what. A hint of brandy, perhaps, but most intoxicating was the taste of him, dark, masculine and thrilling.
She pressed closer, opening herself to all that he was demanding of her. She’d given herself morally and mentally to him; now it was physical, all gloriously physical.
She rubbed her fingers along his jawline, enjoying the faint abrasion of his firm, freshly shaven skin. The light fragrance of his cologne mingled with a darker, more masculine scent. She breathed in the scent of him. Spicy, masculine, unique. Addictive.
Still kissing her, he lifted her—effortlessly; she marveled at it—and carried her to the bed. One more kiss and then he stepped back. She felt instantly bereft, but he bent and shoved his breeches and drawers down and kicked themoff. All he wore now was his white linen shirt, covering him to midthigh.
She wanted it off him, wanted to see him in all his masculine mystery.
He gazed at her, his eyes dark with desire.
She couldn’t bring herself to ask him to remove his shirt. Rendered dumb with a mix of shyness and desire, she did the only thing she could think of: she pulled her chemise over her head and cast it aside, leaving her naked and nervously facing him.
He gazed at her a moment, and she raised her hands to cover herself. He reached forward and caught her hands in his, saying, “Ah, love, don’t hide your glory from me.”Glory?
He kissed her hands, one by one and when he released them, she dropped them, nerveless.
He stood back and with one motion, pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. It floated to the floor and settled over her chemise, but Clarissa wasn’t watching. She was riveted by the sight of him.
She’d never seen a naked man before, only statues, and he was so much…more than the ones she’d seen. “You are beautiful,” she murmured, and reached out to touch him, not the strangest part of him—not yet—but the hard, muscled chest, the broad shoulders and strong, muscular arms.
“Men aren’t beautiful,” he said, but she gave him a sultry look and said, “Looking throughmyeyes, you are.” He laughed softly.
Her eyes devoured that mysterious part of him that looked so hard and erect and fascinating, but before she could look her fill he pressed her back on the bed and joined her there, kissing and caressing her—mouth, eyelids, breasts, stomach, everywhere.
His big, warm hands smoothed, kneaded, and caressed her skin. Clarissa felt desired in a way she’d never before felt. He worshiped her with hands and mouth and body. Shetried to caress him the way he was caressing her, but she’d lost all ability to think, only to feel. And to respond.
His hands slipped over her stomach, brushed over the triangle of hair at the base, and caressed her thighs. Her legs fell apart, trembling with need.
He slipped one hand between her thighs and touched her there, in the secret folds of her body. She stiffened at first but then he began to stroke her there, sliding his finger in and out. It felt strange but not at all unpleasant.
