Kisses and Scandal (A Survivors Series Anthology ) - Shana Galen Page 0,27
He stroked her, and her hips bucked.
“Lass, I am trying not to hurt ye,” he said between clenched teeth. “Stop moving.”
“I can’t. And you’re not hurting me.”
“I’m not fully sheathed.”
That gave her pause. “There’s more?”
He looked down at her and nodded. “Try and be still so I can ready ye.” His fingers circled and flicked at that sensitive nub and she had to move. He slid in deeper and she could feel herself stretching. It wasn’t painful but nor was it comfortable. But her body was arching for climax as his hand continued to tease her. She could ignore the discomfort if he continued to stroke her. His thumb must have circled her, and she cried out. “Please,” she begged.
“Ye will be the death of me,” he said, but he circled her again, and she broke free. Her hips bucked hard and pain sliced through her along with the pleasure. It was a dull pain and a sharp pleasure, and the mixture left her quite breathless. “Are ye hurt?” he asked.
“I’m everything,” she moaned. “More.”
He moved inside her. It was so strange, and yes uncomfortable, but when she looked up, his dark eyes were locked on hers. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, wanting more of him, all of him. She could see everything she felt for him mirrored in his eyes when he looked down at her. Her heart felt like it would burst with the love she felt for him.
“I love ye, Phil,” he said, as though echoing her thoughts. “Christ help me, but I do.”
Afterward, he held her for a long time. He stroked her back and her hair and kissed her brow. When she couldn’t seem to stop yawning, he gave her a quick kiss and said, “I’d best go to my own bed. The other servants will be up in an hour, so they will.”
Before he could pull away, she caught his face and kissed him. “Thank you,” she said.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Lass, it’s I who should be thanking ye.”
“You know what I mean.” She gave him a serious look. “I’m glad my first time was with you.”
He took a breath and nodded. “Ye know I’d never allow anything to happen to ye. I’ll keep ye safe.”
She frowned in confusion. She was already perfectly safe. “Thank you again,” she said. He dressed and crept out of her room, leaving the key she’d given him on her bedside table. With a smile, she closed her eyes and slept.
WHEN DAWSON WAS FINALLY able to drag her out of bed, they were late for their appointment with the lacemakers and the dowager duchess was in high dudgeon. “You know how difficult this appointment was to come by, Philomena,” her mother said in the coach on the way to the lacemakers’ shop. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she turns us away.”
Phil was looking out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of James. She had spotted him when she’d entered the carriage, and her cheeks had felt as hot as flames. For his part, he had studiously avoided her gaze.
“Philomena Anne Duncombe, are you listening to me?” her mother demanded.
“Yes, Mama. Mrs. Draven will not turn us away. For one, Phineas served under her husband in the war. Two, Catarina, her sister Ines, and I are friends.”
“I hardly think inviting them to our box at the theater makes you friends.”
Phil smiled. Her mother did not like her to make friends who were not titled, but she’d liked the Portuguese sisters the first time she’d met them. They were not only talented lacemakers but witty and entertaining.
The duchess peered out the window. “Ah, here we are then.”
They’d arrived at the shop, and Phil noticed there were several women admiring the lace in the window outside. Catarina lace was highly coveted and also outrageously expensive. A footman—not James—handed Phil and her mother down, and Phil didn’t dare look over her shoulder to peek at James. She knew he was there, and that would have to be enough. Perhaps she could look out the window of the shop and spot him.
She followed her mother inside, where they were greeted by both Catarina and Ines, served tea, and regaled with stories of Ines’s foolish suitors and Catarina’s very naughty cat.
Finally, they discussed lace, and her mother ordered her what amounted to a fortune and asked that it be sent to Madame Renauld’s so the modiste could finish her dresses for the Season with it. As her mother