Page 51 of The Courtship Trap
“Sebastian,” she breathed, his name a plea, a surrender, as his hands continued their slow, deliberate exploration.
He lifted his head then, his gray eyes burning into hers, searching. “Say it again,” he murmured.
Her fingers tightened in his hair. “Sebastian.”
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips before he lowered his mouth once more, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh, his voice a husky promise against her skin.
“Good girl.”
Indulging in fleeting moments of passion had never been like this. Never included this bone-deep awareness, this sense of being seen—truly seen—by the one man who had always mattered. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, terrifying.
He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto hers, and for a moment, the air between them pulsed with something unsaid, something fragile and raw.
“This is not a dream, Harry,” he murmured, his voice rough with restraint.
She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening against his skin. “It feels like one.”
His lips curved faintly, but there was no amusement in his expression—only a hunger that mirrored her own. “Then let me make it real.”
And he did.
His hands and mouth worshipped her, learning her anew, as though they had all the time in the world. Harriet shivered beneath his touch, arching into his warmth, pressing herself against him as though she could fuse them together and never let go.
“Sebastian,” she whispered, her voice a breathless entreaty, a plea she did not know how to voice, as his hot mouth slid over to the soft auburn curls that shielded her womanhood. His breath teased her senses more than any before him, or after him, and when she felt the first languid stroke of his tongue against her slick crease, she nearly swooned from the heady delight. Sebastian had learned things about lovemaking since that fateful St. Valentine’s Day, and he took his time revealing his newfoundexperience one sensual lick at a time, as he explored the tender folds of her sex with the tip of his knowledgeable tongue.
Harriet’s passion mounted as she writhed and squirmed, arching her hips up in supplication until he centered his attentions on the sensitive nub at the apex of her seam. Searing, endless waves of sensation hit her as she pushed up against his questing mouth, a muffled shriek of fulfillment escaping her lips as she found the heights of paradise.
Gasping, heaving with the force of her unanticipated pleasure, Harriet slowly returned to the moment to find Sebastian leaning over her with masculine smugness. He licked his lips as he stared deep into her eyes, waiting for her to find her breath.
Eventually, she was able to get the words out of her mouth. “Take me,” was all she said.
His response was silent but powerful—his arms tightening around her, his body pressing closer, the heat between them spiraling into irresistible heights. He kissed her then, slow and deep, tasting her, savoring her, drawing her back into the present when her mind threatened to fracture beneath the awareness of all she had lost, all she had ruined.
It was as if he were rewriting their history with every caress, erasing the years of longing and regret, making her believe, for this one fleeting moment, that they had never been apart.
She wanted to cling to that illusion. Wanted to hold onto it with everything she had.
But the truth lurked in the back of her mind, whispering its cruel reminder. She had lied to him. And when he found out, this would all come crashing down.
So she surrendered herself to him, drowning in his touch, knowing that come morning, the fantasy would shatter.
But for tonight, she was his. And that would have to be enough.
Sebastian rose onto his knees, his breathing uneven as he gazed down at her, his eyes molten with a hunger that sent a shiver through her body.
Harriet could only watch, spellbound, as he reached down, unsteady fingers working the buttons of his falls. The soft rasp of fabric, the quiet catch of his breath—every sound seemed heightened, every movement deliberate.
He stood, his tall, powerful frame looming over her, and to her surprise, he toed off his fine leather shoes first, the gentle thump of them landing on the rug strangely intimate.
Then, without hesitation, he pushed his trousers and small clothes over his hips, the heavy fabric slipping to the floor. His stockings followed, rolled down his calves and cast aside, revealing long, muscled legs dusted with fine golden hair, Harriet’s breath catching in her throat.
He was beautiful. The refinement of an English gentleman and the untamed rawness of a man who had forged his own destiny beyond these shores. The planes of his body were honed from travel, his skin kissed by foreign suns, his strength evident in every flex of sinew and muscle.
He stood before her unabashed, the heat in his gaze searing through her very soul.
Harriet swallowed hard, her heart pounding like a trapped bird. Never had she felt this way. Shy. Never had she trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer anticipation. But, then, she was sober and experiencing this moment in the now, not imagining her last time in his arms.
Sebastian reached for her then, drawing her forward, his hands firm yet reverent as he guided her up onto her knees, their bodies flush against one another.
