The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,47
a little caution snuck into his voice.
“You did?”
“You were so sleepy, you started stumbling on the way in from the garden. You told me not to summon any of the maids.”
“You must have thought I’d had too much to drink.” She untangled her hands from under his ribs but remained tucked up against him, where her feet could get warm. Her nipples had somehow become aching little spikes, pressed deep into her breasts by his chest. But she couldn’t pull away.
“Two glasses of wine?” His snicker quickly put her conscience to rest. “But your eyes were shut before I had finished undoing all those buttons.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her ankle slipped between his, as if holding onto him.
“You were charming.” He kissed the top of her head. “You wore my watch.”
She flushed at the realization he knew she still thought of him and sidestepped that issue without considering the alter-native’s risks.
“How could I be charming, if you didn’t have your wedding night?”
“Who says I didn’t like the outcome?” he retorted, triumph rippling through his voice, as subtle and final as a Colt entering its holster.
Their gazes locked.
“But you haven’t…” She stopped. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, a move which he regarded with considerable interest.
“Yes, honey?” he drawled.
“You haven’t had me,” she whispered and blushed, wishing she could disappear under the bed.
“I’ve slept with you, haven’t I? Maybe not in the Biblical sense but that doesn’t matter, not when you spent hours wrapped in my arms.”
“I wish I remembered it.” She nibbled on her fingernail and wondered how he could be so calm, when she wanted to either run or grab him. But his body was hardly relaxed, given that his heart was drumming under her palm.
“You don’t need to. Your body’s happy, right? So why worry?”
“But I’d like to remember enjoying you, so I wouldn’t have all the horrid thoughts of St. Arles when I think about sleeping with a man.”
“Of course we can make another memory for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anything you want.” His eyes were very blue under their heavy lids. “All you have to do is ask.”
“Kiss?”
“Of course.”
“Or,”—she hesitated, impulses she’d never dared voice to anyone tumbling through her mind—“touch?”
“Anything.” The syllables rasped his throat like the most heart-felt promise. He delicately stroked her hair back from her face. “And everything.”
She smiled, relaxing in the surety of his promise, and traced the long muscle of his cheek, under his beard stubble. It was uncompromising, just like him, yet it seemed to have potential for more.
Surely she could safely handle Gareth. All the things she’d never wanted, never dared with St. Arles.
He turned his head and caught her fingertips in his mouth. She squeaked and shivered at the slow, steady caress. The gentle pull of his lips on her softer flesh seemed to ricochet straight through her arm and circle her breasts, tightening them as it went until she could barely breathe.
He did it again and her eyelids drooped, closing out the world so she could better savor the magic of this simple gesture. And when he kissed her other hand, and the palms of her hands, her heart lurched into a deeper, stronger beat that consumed her lungs.
She moaned softly, as much a plea for more as expressing bewilderment at her own reaction. She’d enjoyed playing with herself before but that had nothing to do with finding pleasure with a man. Didn’t it?
“Ah, sweet Portia, you’re so tempting with your lips parted. Will you mind if I steal a single kiss?” Gareth crooned against her cheek.
She shook her head, blindly seeking the source of the warm breath which ruffled her hair.
“That’s my Portia.” Gareth’s mouth met hers.
She opened willingly but a little shyly, fascinated by the contrast between his lips’ supple curve and his beard’s roughness. Gentleness and strength, both aspects of protection all in one.
He kissed her a little more and she snuggled closer. Somehow her hand slipped up his shoulder and into his hair, entrapped in the heavy strands like a sorcerer’s web.
Time mattered little, compared to the delights of tasting and touching him so intimately, tongue to tongue, lip to lip. Even their teeth gave texture and meaning, adding emphasis and depth—while her breath sighed in and out, sending his warmth down her throat and into her veins. It pulsed through her blood and tightened her breasts, stealing her wits.
He kissed her eyes and cheeks, then nuzzled her throat.
“Gareth, please,” she whispered, although she couldn’t have clearly defined what she wanted.