Page 47 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
He swallowed. “Will you marry me?”
She felt her mouth fall open. She… she hadn’t been imagining things after all. Michael wanted her. He—he wanted to marry her!
But then she remembered their conversation from earlier that evening.
“Oh! That is very kind of you, Michael. But… you do not want to marry me.”
He blinked at her a few times. “I assure you that I do.”
“It was what I said earlier, wasn’t it? About how I might have to settle for a fortune hunter.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything about it. I should have known it would make you feel sorry for me, but you don’t have to—”
“Feel sorry for you? I don’t feel sorry for you—”
“Oh, Michael, you are the dearest friend to ask me. But I could never allow you to throw away the chance of finding future happiness with someone you could truly love just to help me out of my predicament.”
He was back to blinking at her again. “Have you any other objection,” he began slowly, “other than this absurd belief that I do not truly wish to marry you?”
“Of course not. There isn’t one thing about you that is objectionable. But my feelings are not absurd. You’re the son of a marquess, and you’re kind, and intelligent, and honorable, and… and...” Anne felt herself blush still deeper as she made a sweeping gesture. “Just look at you!”
His expression turned a touch smug. “You find me handsome, then?”
“Of course I do. As does every other woman in that ballroom. But that’s not important. The point is, you’re a wonderful man. Every single thing about you is wonderful. Why would you want to marry the likes of me?”
He didn’t answer but posed a question of his own. “So, what you’re saying is that you would marry me, if you believed it was what I truly wanted?”
It was her turn to blink at him. “Well—er—yes.”
His eyes were very intense. “Then let me prove it to you.” He slid onto the bench and his big, strong hands moved up to frame her face.
He pressed his forehead against hers. His voice was a ragged whisper. “May I?”
Her whole body fluttered with anticipation. She wasn’t sure she could speak, but nodded as she mouthed a silent, “Yes.”
And the next thing she knew...
Michael Cranfield was kissing her.
The groan he gave in the instant his lips contacted hers rumbled through his body before passing into hers. He kissed her as gently as if she were spun glass, the softness of his lips a tantalizing contrast to the scrape of his jaw when it brushed hers.
He broke contact and his green eyes drifted open, dazed. His fingertips traced the edges of her face as if she were the most precious treasure on the face of this earth, and Anne realized that his hands were shaking.
“God, Anne,” he moaned before his lips descended on hers again. This time his kiss was not gentle, which wasn’t to say it was rough. It was more… intent. He immediately delved into her mouth with his tongue, and Anne was so startled she parted her lips with a squeak.
Michael groaned again, not seeming to notice her discomfiture, but Anne felt a trace of panic. Her husband had never kissed her this way. Lord Wynters hadn’t been much for kisses in general, preferring to get straight to the business at hand, and she felt embarrassed, to be a widow and not really know how to kiss him back.
But it turned out that didn’t matter, because Michael took charge, sweeping his tongue around the insides of her lips, then moving it to tangle with Anne’s. She found it surprisingly easy to follow his lead and, judging by the pleasurable rumbles rising from his chest, Michael didn’t find her attempts lacking.
Anne began to relax. She looped her arms around Michael’s neck and twined her fingers in his glossy black hair. This type of kissing was new to her, but… she found she quite liked it. It made her feel giddy, as if she’d had one glass of wine too many. A buzzing sensation began to build throughout her body, and her nipples in particular began to tingle. The image sprang into her mind of Michael putting those big, strong, warm hands on her breasts, an image her body apparently loved, because her nipples tightened almost painfully, longing for his touch.
Suddenly the kiss wasn’t enough, and Michael seemed to agree with her, because he scooped her up and placed her in his lap. Now their heads were at the same level and Anne had much better access to his beautiful, sculpted chest. Beneath her leg where it rested in his lap, she could feel a bulge that was as hard as steel, the same one she had felt that afternoon in the boat. Now it wasn’t just her nipples that longed for his touch—Anne felt an unfamiliar pulse start up between her legs, one that grew stronger with every passing beat. She squirmed in his lap, longing for… something.
Michael was kissing her in earnest, not only kissing her but running his hands over her body. He stroked up her arms and then down her back, pausing to tease her waist. He even caressed her bottom, pressing her ever closer against him. Anne found herself wishing he would touch her breasts with those big, warm hands…
By now his mouth was devouring hers and she was shaking so hard that she could not breathe, nor could she think. All she could do was cling to his shoulders, hanging on for dear life in this kiss that was as frustrating as it was magical.
Just when she thought she was going to crawl out of her skin, he pulled his head back. They were both panting, and Michael looked like he was struggling for control. He lifted his eyes to hers, then took hold of her hand and slowly drew it up to his chest where he placed it, palm side down, over the pounding of his heart.
“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice deep.
