on the bed and took her down with him as he stretched out across it. He dug his fingers into her hair as his thumbs brushed across her cheeks. Looking into her eyes, he said, “You knew this was coming, didn’t you?”
Understanding what he meant by “this,” she whispered roughly, “Since that day we met on the street.”
“I knew sooner than that. Also knew it was a bad idea. You’re the damnedest, most complicated woman I’ve ever met. But I can’t stop wanting you.”
He kissed her again. This time it started out tender, but almost at once turned tempestuous. When she responded with the same degree of ardor, he placed one arm around her shoulders while the other encircled her waist. She folded her arm around his neck and clung.
Moaning unintelligible words of arousal, he wedged his knee between hers and pushed it up to separate her thighs, then splayed his hand over her bottom and secured her against him. She felt his want, hard and imperative, assertively male. Every feminine inclination in her being yearned to have that potency inside her.
When he began undoing the buttons down the front of her nightgown, she said faintly, “The lamp—”
“Stays on.” He opened her neckline, slid his hand inside and lifted her breast clear of her nightgown. “Jesus.” His warm breath drifted over her, as did his fingertips, feather-light. He lowered his head and rubbed his lips against her nipple, then swept it with his tongue.
She whispered his name and tunneled her fingers into his hair. He hadn’t gotten it cut since she had met him. It was longer, thicker than then, and she loved the feel of it sliding between her fingers.
When he drew her nipple into his mouth, she closed her fingers, clutching at his hair. He tilted his hips and began moving against her. She arched up to meet the evocative thrusts.
Air stirred against her skin as he raised her nightgown up over her hip. He cradled the back of her knee in his palm, squeezed it with strong fingers, then began stroking her inner thigh. His touch was gentle but bold, dictating adjustments in position as he worked his hand up to where she lay open.
His exploring caresses brought her into stunning awareness of her own feverish, full achiness, of how wet she was. When he pressed a finger into her, she flinched. But reflexively she clenched, signaling a desire for more. He withdrew his finger, but where he touched her next caused her body to jerk in response.
He began drawing fluid circles upon that spot. When at the same time, his mouth tugged on her nipple, her body began to tingle throughout. It was wonderful. It terrified her.
She gasped, “What are you—?”
And then all control spun away from her. Her throat arched, her hips came up off the bed, seeking the cursive design of his strokes. If he stopped, she would die. If he continued, she would die. She ground against his hand in her desire to be engulfed by this tidal wave of sensation, even as she feared being drowned by it.
She panicked and cried out, “Stop!”
He did so instantly. He pulled his hand from beneath her nightgown and braced himself above her on one arm. “Laurel?”
“Don’t.” Using hands and heels, she madly pushed herself from beneath him, moving all the way up to the brass headboard. She crammed the hem of her nightgown into the vee of her thighs, grabbed a pillow and held it against her bared breasts. Her nipples were pinpoints of sensation.
Thatcher was looking at her with bewilderment and concern. “What?”
She couldn’t speak for the currents that continued to ripple through her. Even as they ebbed, her breathing remained choppy.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head and managed a gruff “No.” She pulled down her nightgown to cover her legs. “I’m not like the French girls, that’s all.”
He frowned. “What?”
“I know about them. Derby told me. He admitted that he had been with a few women while he was over there. Only because of the horrible things he saw. I couldn’t hold it against him, could I?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off before he could.
“He told me the girls over there do things that are unheard of in America. Against the law, even. Not only prostitutes. Regular girls. I’m sure you had your share of them.”
He looked down at the floor and ran his hand around the back of his neck. “Laurel—”