Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,36

against his body.

She made a sound of longing in the back of her throat, and his hold shifted again. She realized a moment too late he was anchoring her for the real kiss, for the press of his open mouth over hers, for the startling warmth of his tongue insinuating itself against her mouth.

She’d heard of this kind of kissing, wondered about it. It hadn’t sounded nearly as lush and lovely as Vim Charpentier made it. He didn’t invade, he explored, he invited, he teased and soothed and sent an exotic sense of wanting to all quadrants of Sophie’s anatomy.

He made her, for the first time in her female life, bold. She ran her tongue along that plush, soft space between his bottom lip and his teeth.

He growled, a wonderful, encouraging sound that had her tongue foraging into his mouth again, even as she laughed a little against his lips. The kiss became a battle of tongues and lips and wills, with Vim trying to insist on gentleness and patience, and Sophie demanding a complete melee.

Her hands went questing over the muscles shifting and bunching along his spine then up into the abundance of his golden hair. Bergamot stole into her senses too, a smoky Eastern fragrance that made her want to seek out the places on Vim’s body where he’d applied the scent.

She undid his queue and winnowed her fingers through his hair, even as she felt Vim’s arms lashing more tightly around her.

Against her stomach she felt a rising column of male flesh, and it made her wild to think she’d done that, she’d inspired this man to passion.

“Vim Charpentier…” She breathed his name against his neck, finding the pulse at the base of his throat with her tongue.

“Sophie… Ah, Sophie.”

Her name, but spoken with such regret. It might as well have been a bucket of cold water.

The kiss was over. Just like that. She’d been devouring him with her mouth and her hands and her entire being, and now, not two deep breaths later, she was standing in his embrace, her heart beating hard in her chest, her wits cast to the wind.

“My dear, we cannot.”

Vim’s voice was a quiet rumble against her body. He at least did her the kindness of not stepping away, though his embrace became gentle again, and Sophie felt him rest his cheek against her hair. Her mind drunk and ponderous, she only slowly realized what he was saying. He’d contemplated taking her to bed—and rejected the notion. In her ignorance, she’d been so swept up in the moment she’d given no thought to what might follow.

What could have followed.

If only.

She tried to tell herself “if only” was a great deal closer to her wishes and desires than she’d been one kiss ago. There was “if only” in Vim’s voice and in the way he held her, as if she were precious. It was a shared “if only.”

It was better than nothing.

She realized he’d hold her until she broke the embrace, another kindness. So she lingered awhile in his arms, breathing in his scent, memorizing the way her body matched up against his much taller frame. She rested her cheek against his chest and focused on the feel of his hand moving over her back, on the glowing embers of desire slowly cooling in her vitals.

He’d experienced desire, as well—desire for her. His flesh was still tumescent against her belly. Before she stepped back and met his eyes, Sophie let herself feel that too.

If only.

***

Vim drifted to awareness with jubilant female voices singing in his head. “Arise! Shine! For thy light is come!”

Too much holiday decoration had infested his dreams with the strains of old Isaiah, courtesy of Handel.

Though somebody was most definitely unhappy.

He flopped the covers back and pulled on the luxurious brocade dressing gown before his mind was fully awake. In the dark he made his way down the frigid corridor and followed the yowling of a miserable infant to Sophie’s door.

“Sophie?” He knocked, though not that hard, then decided she wasn’t going hear anything less than a regiment of charging dragoons over Kit’s racket. He pushed the door open to find half of Sophie’s candles lit and the lady pacing the room with Kit in her arms.

“He won’t settle,” she said. “He isn’t wet; he isn’t hungry; he isn’t in want of cuddling. I think he’s sickening for something.”

Sophie looked to be sickening. Her complexion was pale even by candlelight, her green eyes were underscored by shadows, and her