First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4) - Julia Quinn Page 0,75

in the early morning sunlight.

Her nightgown had not been designed to entice; it was a basic, utilitarian thing, much like his own, but as he slid the hem up her slender legs, inch by tantalizing inch, he was grateful for it. At some point in the rushed wedding plans, he’d heard her mother bemoan the lack of a proper trousseau. He wanted to see Georgie in French silk and Belgian lace, but not yet. He didn’t think he could take it.

“You have to tell me what you like,” he said.

She nodded, her eyes shy.

He touched her thigh, his large hand skimming over the front before he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you like that?”

“Yes.”

His thumb slid from position, stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh, ever careful not to stray too high.

She wasn’t ready for that yet. And maybe he wasn’t, either. If he touched her there, felt the heat of her, he might explode.

He had to make this last. He was as hard as he’d ever been in his life, and despite this being new, he felt the primal instinct of man rising within, hard and fast. He wanted to claim her.

He wanted to mark her as his.

The need was so fierce and intense he barely recognized himself.

When he spoke again his voice was shaky. “What else do you like?”

She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he was even asking. “Everything,” she whispered. “I’ve liked everything you’ve done.”

“Everything?” he said in a low growl. It was almost embarrassing how much he liked hearing that.

She nodded shyly. “I really like it when—”

“What?” he asked urgently. He had to know.

“When you kissed me,” she whispered, bringing her fingers to skin just below her collarbone. “Here.”

He sucked in his breath. Here was where the swell of her breast began. Here was a short journey to the pink tip he was aching to discover.

Here was an excellent place to begin a journey.

He replaced her fingers with his mouth, his tongue drawing lazy, sensual circles on her skin. She arched toward him, moaning with pleasure, and the sound stoked the fire that was already raging inside him.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured. Had her skin ever been touched by the sun? He wanted to explore her, every inch of her. He wanted a map of her body, and he wanted it drawn on his own.

Dear God, where were these thoughts coming from? He was a scientist, not a poet. And yet when he kissed her—her lips, her cheek, her neck—he could swear the world broke out into song.

Her nightgown tied at the neck with a simple bow, and he gave it a little tug, watching as the loop of the bow grew smaller and smaller until it eventually popped free. He didn’t think the gown was meant to be lowered over her body, but the loosened neckline gave him access to a wider expanse of her skin. He kissed one of those newly revealed spots, and then another.

And then another, because he couldn’t seem to resist a single inch of her.

Her nightgown couldn’t be lowered any further, so he moved his lips over the muslin, skimming along her plump breast until he found the peak.

She gasped.

He took it in his mouth, and she gasped again, but this time it was louder, colored by a moan of pleasure.

“Do you like that?” he asked, thinking he might very well die if she said no.

“Yes.”

He took her other breast in his hand, playing with her nipple through the fabric of her nightgown. She writhed beneath him, breathless in her desire.

He felt like a god.

“I didn’t know they were so sensitive,” Georgie said.

This surprised him. “You’ve never touched them?”

She shook her head.

“You should.” Nicholas nearly came right then, just thinking about her touching herself.

“Is it the same way for you?” she asked.

It took him a moment to realize what she was asking, but once he caught her meaning, he sat up and whipped his nightshirt off so quickly he was stunned it did not tear.

“Touch me,” he said.

Or he might have begged it.

She reached up and touched her fingertips to his chest, starting at the center before trailing lightly to his nipple. He shuddered, and she snatched her hand away.

“No,” he said, barely recognizing his voice. “I liked it.”

Her eyes met his.

“I want it,” he said.

She reached up again, and this time her touch was more sure. It wasn’t that she suddenly knew what she was doing—he had a feeling neither of them did—but she