Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,87

“Well, you try then.”

“What color is the grass?” he asked. “And the oaks?”

She forced her gaze from his features and looked about. “The trees are all shades of autumn colors—brown and red, some yellow and orange, a few green leaves hanging on yet. The grass is golden, almost the color of wheat. You can feel how soft it is, as though it died only recently and hasn’t dried out and turned brittle and tough yet.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, finally. “The way you see the world. The way you see me.”

“That’s because you show me the real you,” she said. “Everyone else only sees gruff and angry Nash Pope.”

He grinned. “Is that what I sound like? That low, growly voice?”

“Perhaps. Sometimes.”

His mouth found her lips again, and she wrapped her arms about him, closing her eyes and letting her skin revel in his touch. When he’d grinned down at her, she’d felt a sudden twist in her heart. And she’d almost said exactly what she was feeling. It had taken a swift bite to the inside of her cheek to reign in the impulse to tell him she loved him.

She hadn’t even realized she did until that moment. And as soon as she did, she wanted to say the words, but some shred of sense was left in her somewhere and she knew he was not ready to hear them. Perhaps he never would be.

Her hands went to work untying his neckcloth and then unfastening the buttons of his collar. She returned his kisses then, teasing the skin of his neck with her lips and tongue until he was breathing heavily. She unfastened his waistcoat and pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel the warmth of his bare skin.

It was too chilly on this autumn day, even in the sun, to undress, but she wanted to touch as much of him as she could. His hands slid over the bodice of her dress then down to her waist and over the hot place between her legs. He gathered her skirt and tugged it up until she felt the cool air on her calves. She hadn’t worn her drawers as she’d known she was to try on her new dress today, and Mrs. Northgate would have lectured her on drawers. And so Nash’s warm hand soon made an erotic contrast to the breeze as he slid up her leg and toward her core.

“Touch me,” she whispered. His lips found hers and his hand brushed over the damp curls of her sex. He made a sound of approval as he stroked her, his fingers finding the small bud that gave her the most pleasure easily and then teasing it until she was writhing and fisting her hands in his shirt.

“Nash, I want you inside me,” she ordered, not caring that a lady would never say such a thing.

“Yes,” he said. “But first let me give you—”

“Now,” she said, reaching for the fall of his breeches. She opened it, and his erection was warm and hard in her hands. He made a slight groan as she slid her hand up and down him, moving their bodies closer together. When he moved inside her, she couldn’t stop the feral moan from rising in her throat. The way he filled her, stretched her, stroked her was like no other feeling in the world.

“I’ll go slowly,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Yes,” she agreed as he moved inside her, so very slowly that she felt she might go mad. At the same time, she enjoyed the torture, the slow build to climax, the rushing of blood in her ears, and the way everything in the world dimmed but the scent of him and the feel of him and the taste of his lips as he kissed her.

“Pru,” he said, his voice gruff as she tensed around him, the spiral of pleasure rising and rising now. “Pru.”

She liked the way he said her name, liked that even though he couldn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t look at her, he was with her. He was thinking only of her.

She arched back as the climax reached its peak, thrusting her hips hard against him and crying out as he plunged deeper inside her. He cried out too, pulling out as she reached the last throes of pleasure to spill his seed on the grass beside them. Then he was back beside her, kissing her,