through her body, he slid his right hand down her left arm and brought her hand to his lips. The acrid smell of gunpowder stained her flawless skin. “It is all right, my sweet,” he murmured once more and pressed his lips to the tips of her fingers. Then, turning her hand over, he kissed the velvet of her palm.
Beyond the gunpowder, she tasted of honey, the sweet intoxicating nectar of the gods. His tongue pressed past his lips and traced a line beyond the heel of her palm to the juncture of her wrist. He swirled against the sensitive skin and brought a moan from her lips.
“My sweet Irish rose,” he whispered, gazing into her heavy-lidded eyes. The slightest pressure of his left hand turned her face closer. He looked down, watching her moisten her lips. The urge to brand her as his own brought a fire raging nearly out of control through his veins. “Mary Rose, you are a temptress. You torment my dreams. I believe you have bewitched me,” he whispered, and their lips met.
This time, she anticipated his move and met his kisses with abandonment. Her hand on his chest crept around to his back to hold him to her. His trousers grew uncomfortably tight. He traced the line of her mouth and, with his left hand, he slipped his fingers between hers, extending their arms to the sides.
Sliding his middle finger beneath their closed palms, Trace boldly stroked the warm flesh. Up and down, he performed the heated dance while their tongues brushed and stroked. Her back arched, and Mary Rose pressed against him. There was no doubt she could feel the depth of his want through her clothing.
His hand let go of hers and moved to her waist. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the flutter of her breathing and knew their kisses affected her. Her fingers pressed against the muscles of his back and dragged down toward his waist. A deep growl rose from his chest as his hands moved up. One thumb brushed the swell of her breast, and she whimpered for more.
Her cry spurred him on. His fingers moved against her breasts, feeling the heat as he kneaded them. The pads of his thumbs grazed her nipples and, through her layer of clothing, he felt them bead. She gasped and stilled.
Releasing her lips, Trace pulled her face away to enjoy the look of rapture that encompassed her features. He wanted nothing more than to bend her over the table and make love until neither of them could stand. It would be easy. She was so willing, but it would be so wrong.
Mary Rose must have sensed his change. She opened her eyes and looked questioningly at him, her lips swollen from their ardent kisses, her skin stained with the blush of passion. Never before had he seen any woman so beautiful. The words of the priest echoed. Listen to your heart. Could he trust it?
“You’re still bleeding,” she whispered.
“It’s only a scratch.” He felt her tender fingers on his cheek. Her right hand again found his chest.
“Sit down and let me take care of this,” she said.
Somehow he managed to make himself comfortable on the chair despite the tightness of his trousers, which threatened to cut off circulation to an important part of his body. Listen to your heart. Her arm swept by him and picked up the sling before she moved to the pump.
“Your arm?”
“It’s sore, but much better, thank you.”
The metal handle groaned as she primed it with two tugs before water spilled into the cast iron sink. Watching her, he thought about her hand and those strokes. He squirmed. Oh, his imagination was evil. It would do him no good to dream about the feel of her strokes on a certain part of his anatomy. He must gain control of the lust he felt around this delectable creature.
She turned and offered him a beguiling smile. The room seemed to light up with her presence. Bringing the damp cloth to the table, she folded it over and stood in the V made by his legs. “This may hurt,” she said.
Her words were prophetic.
He closed his eyes, wondering if she knew how her nearness strained his control. Her scent filled his nostrils. A flower? Perhaps a rose? He breathed deeply once more. No, something a bit more exotic. It stirred a memory, but he could not grasp it. He opened his eyes just as she leaned forward. Those ripe breasts