But it was like a drug. He was tender, and methodical. He didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. He enticed. He coaxed.
Her lips were parting on their own now, following his as they lifted and tempted her, taunted her. He laughed, deep in his throat, at her sudden yielding. So much for her high moral tone. She was as hungry for this as he was. He drew in a quick breath as he felt her hands flatten in the hair over his muscular chest, and reacted to it helplessly. It had been years since he’d been so quickly aroused with a woman.
He wanted to drag her against him and let her feel his hunger, but he hesitated. Even if she was only doing lip service to her morals, he didn’t want to dampen the hunger she was beginning to reveal. He caught her upper lip in both of his and tasted it underneath with his tongue, brushing and lifting. He felt her hands on his upper arms now, her nails digging in involuntarily as she lifted toward him.
His hands slid under her back, under the robe, and he eased down against her, the pressure of his chest even through her gown causing odd, sweet sensations all over her untried body.
One big, strong hand came around to toy with the cotton under her arm. She caught it with a tiny gasp, because even through her robe and gown, his touch was electrifying. But his mouth covered hers again and her fingers relaxed more and more until they moved away. She didn’t want to stop him, anyway. He was making her body sing. He smoothed his fingers over her rib cage, his thumb brushing just the side of her firm breast and making her quiver. He slid it around, over her hips, down to cover her flat stomach.
Why should he suddenly think of babies? His own breath caught against her mouth. A child. He groaned. His mouth became suddenly insistent, demanding. He moved down against her.
Through the gown and robe, she could feel his chest rubbing against her pert little breasts, brushing his chest, arousing him. His hips brushed hers and she felt the changing contours of his body.
A sound worked its way out of her throat and up into his mouth. He recognized it for what it was.
So did she. Even as she heard herself moan, she knew she had to stop him. This could never happen. He was a man who had disposable lovers. She was the woman who’d blinded him. She couldn’t—didn’t—dare let this go any further.
Her hands pressed hard against his chest and she drew her mouth from under his, not without a little shudder of anguish. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Please don’t...!
He lifted his head. Odd, that he had a sudden image of white roses and lace flash in his mind.
He moved away from her and fought to catch his breath. It was hard to let her go, because she tasted like heady wine.
He felt her begin to relax as he lifted himself away from her. But his fingers still moved on her rib cage, very slowly, teasing near her breast. He felt her reaction to even that innocent touch. She wanted him. She might not be ready for intimacy, but she wouldn’t resist long, if he insisted. He was sure of it.
Emma was torn between what her body wanted and what she knew she had to do. His touch kindled a hunger that was totally unfamiliar. New. It wasn’t the lure of sex, either. It was something more, something sweeter.
He drew in a last, steadying breath. “You’re very slender, Emma,” he said softly. “How much do you weigh?”
She laughed. “A hundred and ten,” she said, surprised.
“You’re tall.”
“Well, not so very. Just five feet and six inches.”
His hand lifted, reluctantly, and found her hair. It was braided down her back. He smiled. “You don’t let it loose at night?”
“It tangles.”
“I suppose so. What color is it?”
“Blond. Pale blond.”
“And your eyes?”
She smiled. “They’re brown. Dark brown.”
“An interesting combination.”
“I’m not pretty,” she added quietly. “I have regular features, but they’re not beautiful. Nothing like...” She bit her tongue. She was going to say, like that woman who’d cooked him a soufflé once that he complained about. She’d been beautiful. But the woman he’d hated, who’d blinded him, had remembered that. The woman she was pretending to be wouldn’t have known about the soufflé, and he’d have snapped at the memory like a fish biting a worm. She had to be careful about what she said to him.
“Nothing like...?” he asked.
“Nothing like the sort of women you probably know,” she said instead.
He shrugged. “They all start to look alike after a while. Feel alike. Sound alike.” He sighed. “I suppose I’ve gotten jaded in my old age, Emma. Women come and go. Mostly they go. I’m thirty-eight. I’m slowing down. I sent the last one away a couple of weeks ago. The one you put through to me recently,” he added with pursed lips.
“Oh, dear.”
“You’ll learn who gets to talk to me and who doesn’t.”
“Do they take numbers and stand in line?” she wondered.
He chuckled. “Not quite.”
It felt comfortable, lying in bed with him. She liked it very much.
“I should go to bed,” she said.
“I guess you should.” He sat up and felt for her arm, pulling her up gently with him.
“Is your head better?” she asked as she got to her feet.
“Much better.” He cocked his head and smiled wickedly. “If I get another migraine, will you come back?”
She laughed softly. “Not without some promises from you first.”
“Coward.”
“You bet.”
He drew in a breath and stretched lazily. Watching him, Emma almost moaned at the way he looked, half-dressed. He was beautiful, like a painting. Like a sculpture.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she said abruptly, because she realized she was enjoying the sight of him a little too much.
“Thanks, Emma,” he said suddenly.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad your head’s better.”
He just nodded.
She went out and closed the door.
He groaned and put his head in his hands. His body was in agony. She wasn’t like his other women, and he wanted her. But she’d expect a commitment, a wedding, the whole nine yards if he gave in to his urges. So what the hell was he going to do now?
Down the hall, Emma was wondering the same thing. She loved kissing him. She loved having him hold her. She should have resisted more. Instead, she’d enjoyed everything he did to her.
It
