Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,48

many clothes.’

He gently pushed her forwards. ‘Let me at these laces, girl,’ he said softly. ‘I would have you skin to skin.’

Her stomach clenched at the sensual whisper and the image it provoked.

His hands made short work of the ties of her stays. They, too, fell to the floor. Slowly, almost reverently, he drew her chemise up her body. She lifted her arms and he pulled it over her head and off. He spun her around to face him, his gaze raking her body, taking in her breasts and waist and the triangle of glossy black curls between her thighs, before travelling back to her face.

Did he approve of what he saw? Or would he see the low-class foreignness in her blood as something to scorn or mock as her grandfather had avowed when offering her the horridest of old men as a husband?

There was an expression on his face, something in his eyes, but she couldn’t read it.

She dropped her gaze, fearing what she might see. What he would say.

‘Gorgeous,’ he whispered. ‘Truly lovely. I never thought the beauty of your body would outmatch a most delicious pair of feet.’

She looked up quickly and saw nothing mocking in his face. Indeed, there was a kind of wondering awe. The amazement in his eyes was unquestionably sincere.

She managed a tremulous smile, even as the heat of embarrassment at his outrageous praise flooded her body.

‘Ah, the Madonna-face again,’ he said. ‘It drives me mad for you and you know it, don’t you?’

She shook her head, not at all sure what he meant. ‘It is the only face I have,’ she whispered.

‘Then I must kiss it.’ He cupped her jaw in both palms and kissed her lips. She opened her mouth to welcome him in, parted her thighs to the pressure of his. Felt him groan. It seemed he was not the only one with power.

Then thoughts refused to form as pleasure at her core roused her to new heights of longing.

Slowly he lowered her to the cushions in front of the hearth; the velvet felt soft against her naked skin, a contrast to the brush of rough hair against her inner thigh, the hardness of his member at her hip and the firm squeeze of his hand at her breast.

Her skin became one vast plain of sensation, tingles and searing heat, heartbeats thundering in her ears and throughout her body. The kiss stole her vision of everything but the feel of his lips, his tongue, his strong male body and the need they inspired deep within.

Slowly, lingeringly, he ended the magical wooing of his mouth on hers with butterfly kisses on the tip of her nose, each eyelid, the point of her chin, while her hands explored the expanse of his shoulders, the narrow span of his waist, the rise of his buttocks. A lean body, steel covered by hot silk, so different from hers.

He slid downwards, his weight on one hand, while the other played with her breast. Delicious little arrows of pleasure speared downwards. She raised her head to see what he did. Together they watched as he rolled her dark brown nipple between thumb and finger, tugging lightly.

‘Ah,’ she cried at the lancing ache. A darting glance, gleaming with wickedness, met her gaze and then he bent his head, his hot wet tongue and teeth replacing his fingers. The sensation brought her hips up off the cushions.

‘Oh,’ she cried, stunned at the force of the pleasure, the sweet aching pain of it, and the shocking desire for more.

She didn’t have to ask, he seemed to know, and the pleasure grew each time his mouth found some new way to drive her to utter distraction.

Yet no matter how high she soared, how tight her insides clenched, what she wanted seemed just beyond her reach and centred deep inside. She raised her hips, pressing against his thigh, and while the increased pressure offered a measure of satisfaction, it only added to the torture of what was happening inside her body.

When he started to go lower with his kisses, she moaned a protest.

He chuckled softly and she struck his shoulder with her fist, a demand, but for what she didn’t quite know, even as the words came into her mind. Le petit mort. The little death. That was it. She wanted to die. To end the torture.

He half rolled on his side and cupped between her legs, pressing and moving his hand in a small circle. The tension only got worse.