The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,57
him. Her breasts flattened against his chest and his ribs lifted air into her lungs, as fast as his lips claimed hers.
She moaned happily, eager to taste more of what he’d given her earlier.
He kissed her thoroughly, sweetly. His hands roamed her back freely, sweeping from her shoulders to her waist, over her hips and curving to fondle her derriere. She wiggled closer, enjoying the warm pulse rocking between his mouth and her breast every time he kissed her, the lazy sparks of lust drifting through her veins.
She sank her fingers into his shoulders but his shirt’s crisp starch rejected her. She made a disconsolate little sound and pressed closer, seeking more contact with the warm male flesh under her mouth.
“Portia?” He nuzzled her cheek, barely moving his head away from her. “What do you want, honey?”
She needed a moment to recover her dazed wits. “I’d like to touch you, not your clothes.”
“Are you certain? Matters may—probably will—go further than they did this morning.” He considered her, sprawled across the silk rug in the late afternoon sunlight like a sultan.
“I think I want them to.” She nibbled on her fingertip and watched him hopefully. Her breasts ached so much for his touch and his shaft was so very large inside his trousers.
Yet she could never be sure he wouldn’t do exactly what he pleased, which might not suit her at all. All she knew was that he’d never hurt her.
“Please, Gareth?” she added.
“Very well.” He looked as if he was leashing himself, although not a muscle moved. “Do you know what steps you’d like to take next?”
His voice deepened and slowed until it wrapped around her bones, luring her forward.
She dragged her teeth across her lips, a move he watched with fascination.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she whispered.
“Take them off,” he countered.
Every bit of her skin suddenly flushed with warmth and the desperate need to do exactly what he said.
“I, uh, I—you mean it.” She stammered to a stop, heat crackling into sparks between them under his heavy-lidded eyes.
“Of course. We’ve always told each other the truth.”
She closed her gaping mouth, acutely aware of how taut her breasts suddenly were. He stroked her waist but didn’t move his hands any higher.
She’d have to prove her willingness to him before he’d know she was ready to step out of St. Arles’ shadow.
Surely the rewards would be worthwhile for doing this.
She climbed off him unsteadily and knelt on the floor. Her skirts fanned out around her in a billowing pool of embroidered flowers, like a promise.
The first button seemed to be made of butter, judging by how it slid away from her jerky fingers and refused to move from one side of his vest to the other. By the time she finally saw a wider vee of shirt, she’d tasted blood from where she’d bitten through her lip.
“More,” Gareth commanded harshly.
Her eyes flashed to his, unbearably drawn by his tone.
“Undo my vest, sweet Portia,” he said a little more gently, his breathing as bitterly controlled as a tiger pacing out his territory’s limits.
“I can’t,” she stuttered, fascinated beyond thought by how crystal bright his eyes had become behind his thick lashes. And how untamed his hair was when it fell over his forehead.
“If you unbutton my vest,” he coaxed, his chest rising and falling underneath it, “I’ll undo my cufflinks for you.”
She ran the back of her finger down one wrist. So very big and strong—but the hands they guarded? Heavens, the delights they’d wrought upon her that morning.
His breath creaked to a sudden halt.
“I can manage them,” she bargained, suddenly more confident. “But you have more fastenings than I do.”
A black eyebrow slashed upward like an artist’s brush stroke. “What do you mean by that?”
“If I unfasten those few, how will you help speed up our undressing?” she asked, startled at her own frankness. She knew she hungered for him but why was she speaking so boldly about it?
“By taking my shirt and boots off,” he answered promptly. “Or your gown.”
She closed her eyes against the reckless instinct to simply hurl herself at him.
Her fingers were vibrating faster than her heartbeat when she bent over him again. Only the knowledge that her hair shielded her face kept her close to him.
But she sighed when he stroked her shoulder and down her arm.
“Beautiful silk,” he murmured, “but not half as lovely as my lady.”
The last button undone, she stayed where she was, head bent and panting far too much for breath.