by Shana Galen
A few choice words came to mind but, considering her present position, she decided to refrain from mentioning them. He grinned at her, apparently reading her thoughts.
“A wise decision, cara.” He leaned back comfortably, and pulled her closer. He seemed in no hurry to let her up no matter how she squirmed to get loose. “I have always been partial to the French endearments—chéri, mon amour.” He wiggled his brows. “Mon Dieu—”
“Oh, Lord!” She directed her eyes heavenward at his vanity.
“Now that’s the idea.” He gave her a cocksure smile.
“Now I’m standing up!” She lurched away from him again and was rewarded as his grip slipped from her legs briefly before enclosing her in his warmth again.
“But as you seem to be having difficulty just remembering my name, I’ll settle for Ethan.”
“I’ll call you Ethan!” she spat, squirming again.
“You’ll call me husband if you don’t stop moving like that.” The heat in his voice immobilized her instantly. She tried very hard not to think about the solid length of him beneath her.
“I’ll not agree to this betrothal ball,” she said stubbornly, attempting to return her focus to the matter at hand.
He gave her a dark look. “Yes, you will. And you’ll smile at me, flirt with me, and generally give everyone the impression that you’re madly in love with me.”
“No, I won’t! What purpose will that serve except to titillate the neighbors and cause that much more scandal when we call the betrothal off.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, that’s a surprise!”
“What I do care about is your safety. Does your reputation mean more to you than your life?”
Now she was the one who had no response.
The hand on her waist began to move in a slow circle, tingling her hip and tickling her lower abdomen. She should move away. She should tell him to stop, but she couldn’t seem to manage those words either.
She said the first thing that came to her mind. “Even if the attacker comes to the ball, there will be hundreds of people there. You’ll never find him." Her voice hitched on the last word as his hand skimmed the edge of her abdomen. “And he wouldn’t be so imprudent as to assault anyone with so many others around.”
“Then, at the very least, we’ve spent an evening indulging ourselves in your neighbors’ congratulations, good food, and excellent wine.” His roving hand rested on the small of her back.
She felt a moment of relief when he ceased caressing her, but it was short-lived. His fingers on her lower back stretched as if testing the flare of her hips. She curled her toes to keep from responding.
His eyes softened, and his amber gaze searched her face. From the way he looked at her, she knew he was perfectly aware of the effect of his touch. His hand dipped lower, almost grazing her thigh, and she barely managed to choke out her next words. “You should stop.”
“I should, yes.”
This was her last chance. If she didn’t leave now, what happened next would be her fault. “I’m leaving now, Winterbourne.” She struggled, and this time—to her disappointment—he let her wriggle away. She stumbled to her feet, but he followed. Before she could scoot away, he braced his hands on the table behind her, boxing her in.
She took three shallow breaths and tamped down the urge to press herself into him.
“My name is Ethan.”
He stepped closer, his body brushing against hers, and she inhaled sharply.
“Fine!” She gave him a little shove, weak and ineffective but all she could manage at the moment. “I’m leaving, Ethan.”
He frowned, ignoring her feeble protest. “Don’t say it like that. No one will believe that.”
“No one will believe you want to marry me no matter how skillfully I act. Everyone will think it’s ridiculous.”
His brow creased in that rare puzzled expression she found at once so adorable and so vexing. She looked away quickly, wishing she could take the words back.
“You implied that earlier. Why is it ridiculous?”
She bit her lip and stared out the window at her hospital. “Don’t pretend not to know.”
“I’m not pretending.”
She glanced at him, surprised that he seemed genuinely confused. She tossed her hands out in frustration. “Everyone knows that a man like you would never be interested in a woman like me.”
His bewildered expression softened into understanding.
“Is that what you think?” His low voice made the tiny hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck stand up.
“It’s what everyone will think.” She stared down at his shirt and concentrated on the feel of the table edge behind her. She didn’t want to see the truth of her statement in his eyes.
“I doubt it. More likely, everyone will see how much I want you.”
Her head whipped up, eyes meeting his, and she stumbled. The edge of the table scraped against the back of her legs.
“No, you don’t.” She shook her head, searching for an explanation for the desire she saw in his look. “You’re just, just—” Francesca braced her hands against the worn plank of wood behind her, then jumped as she touched his hands.
He lowered his head. “I’m just—?”
He was close enough that she could feel the heat emanating from him, surrounding her, enveloping her.
She lifted a hand, putting it to her temple. Trying to think with him so near was almost impossible. He caught her wrist, gently this time, and brought her fingers to his lips. She shivered.
“What am I?” he asked.
“Bad.” She dared a look at his lips on her fingers. “You are a bad man.” Her voice came out in a throaty whisper.
Ethan chuckled, lips curving ever so slowly into a wicked smile. Her insides warmed and turned to mush.
The curve of his sensual lips alone could seduce a woman. She searched quickly for something besides his mouth to focus on and made the mistake of looking into his eyes. The fiery gold flecks embedded in the amber danced with heat, a heat she could feel pouring into her through the touch of his hand on hers and the closeness of their bodies. His touch scorched her.
“I am bad,” he agreed, voice husky and smooth as velvet. He rubbed her fingers over his lips again. “Is that why you like me so much?”
She gasped. “No!” She tried scooting away but only succeeded in jarring her hip against the wooden plank again.
“No, that’s not why you like me so much, or no, there’s another reason you like me?”
His annoying grin widened. Why she had ever thought his lips sensual, she would never know. “I do not like you.”
He rubbed his thumb along the inside of her palm, and her breath caught. “Yes, you do.”
She did. She really did. She couldn’t help but love him. Weakly, she fought it. “No, I—”
He put his free hand to her mouth, fingers brushing across her lips, silencing her shaky denial.
“Stop arguing and kiss me.”
She shook her head. Appalled. Flustered. Aroused.
He pulled her against him, resting the hand he’d caught in his on his chest. Angling his head so his mouth was inches from hers, he murmured, “Think of it as rehearsal for next week.”
“That’s a bad thing to say,” she whispered. “And there will not be—”
“Shh.” He touched his forehead to hers, and she felt his fingers skate down her arm. She shivered. She could sense the tightness and frustration in him and knew he was holding back.
“Then kiss me because you want to or because I want you to. I need you to.”
His gaze never left hers, patient, full of desire. Desire for her. Francesca knew if she said no, he would release her. Allow her to walk away. The feeling that the next move was completely her choice was strangely empowering. She could choose to say no. She could leave the field, triumphant.
He pressed her hand more firmly against his chest, and she felt the rapid drum of his heart.
It pounded as fiercely as hers. And then, suddenly, there was no longer any choice to be made. She could feel the passion pulsing through him. It flowed into her, overwhelming her. Kissing him would mean surrender, but, oh, what sweet surrender.
With a small shiver of excitement, she leaned forward and kissed him.
Twenty
Ethan felt like a starving man given his first taste of nourishment. Only it wasn’t a crust of bread and water, but the richest, most luxurious sip of chocolate. The kind that glides smoothly over one’s tongue and saturates every taste bud completely.
Her mouth swept lightly over his—probing, testing. She was almost too rich, and yet kissing Francesca was only a small taste of decadence. He knew there was so much more—chocolate with milk, chocolate spiced with cinnamon or vanilla, chocolates flavored with rose-water. And he wanted to drink them all, savor each one to the fullest. Savor her to the fullest.
He also knew the tentative woman he held in his arms, the woman he now wanted so badly he could taste his desire, was the most fragile of any he’d ever known. After last night, he knew one false move, one awkward stumble, and the delicate trust she’d placed in him would melt as quickly as a pot of chocolate under the flame.
He had to allow her to move at her own pace, allow her to take control. It would not be easy. He’d never allowed a woman so much before. But then he’d never known one so vulnerable, one he...trusted this much.
He barely had time to register the novel feeling of trusting a woman when the feel of her soft, creamy lips against his began driving him to madness again. He fought for control. If he’d had his way...
No, better not to think of that now. Better to enjoy the small slice of bliss she offered.
With a supremeness of will he didn’t know he possessed, Ethan held his hands and body immobile. Only his mouth moved, his lips responding lightly and without demand to her kiss. She drew away, and her dark gaze met his. With only the dim light from the lone tack room window, she appeared mysterious, enveloped in shadows. Still, he recognized the question in her eyes. She’d expected him to take control, take possession of her mouth, her body.
And he would have liked nothing better, but he didn’t dare. Not after the way she’d reacted to his advances in the hospital. He needed to know this was what she wanted too. Another moment ticked by, their gazes locked. He willed her to kiss him again.
Then he felt the fingers of one of her small hands thread through his hair and come to rest on the nape of his neck. Her touch was exploratory, hesitant. Incredibly arousing. Even in the gloom of the tack room, leaning against the rickety desk and surrounded by forgotten equipment, she was seductive, alluring. Her wide cocoa eyes focused on him again, misty with desire. Perhaps it was the contrast between her generous beauty and the austere tack room that brought black velvet and silver shadows on silk sheets to his mind.
She tugged on his neck gently, and he lowered his mouth, stopping just short of physically touching his lips to hers. Thank God she closed the distance, pressing herself deliciously against him.
Her touch was more confident this time, her lips exploring his mouth as her hand had his neck a moment before. And when he felt her open her mouth beneath his, he groaned softly. She stilled, as if waiting for him to turn conqueror, and when he didn’t, she swept her tongue along his.
She continued the gentle assault—thrusting forward, testing his defenses, then pulling back and regrouping. She tasted of moonlight and magic—dark and mysterious, subtle but powerful. He was throbbing for her, delirious with desire, hands and body responding to her without conscious thought.
She was still pressed between his body and the makeshift desk. He released the light hold on the hand he held to his heart and traced a path from her shoulders to her waist. She leaned into him, shivering when his fingers dipped lower, caressing the swell of her hips.
She deepened the kiss, moving restlessly against him, no longer timid and afraid. He realized that if he could show her true pleasure, true ecstasy, he might be able to erase or undo the fear she’d shown in the hospital.
He inched his hands lower, filling his palms with the curve of her bottom, making her gasp and quiver in his arms. He took advantage of the momentary parting of their lips and moved his mouth to her neck, placing small kisses where her pulse beat a rapid rhythm.
“Let me show you pleasure, cara,” he murmured against her skin. As always, it smelled of chocolate and cinnamon. His fingers grasped the fabric of her serviceable gray-green gown and slid it higher.
She shook her head feebly. “No.”
He knew she felt the cool tack room air on her ankles and calves.
“I...shouldn’t.”
“Stop me at any point you choose.” The heat of her hand was warm and soft against the nape of his neck. “Tug on my hair with your fingers, and I give you my word I’ll stop.”
He inched her skirts higher, to her knees. She tensed her body in response. “Test me,” he whispered against her cheek. He raised the hem higher, imagining it skimming the backs of her knees, then he felt the small tug on his hair.
He froze, inched away, and, watching her, waited. Uncertainty and desire warred in her face. He moved one finger from her skirts and pressed it lightly against the back of her thigh. She shuddered.
“Do you want me to stop?” His finger sketched a lazy circle as he imagined how her skin would feel bared to his touch. “Let me show you.”
She hesitated, and Ethan ceased the motion of his finger. He didn’t want to influence her, persuade her. He wanted her to crave him as much as he craved her.
And he did crave her. Craved her so much he ached when he looked at her. He was mesmerized by her expression, a provocative mixture of the seductive and the innocent—her eyes too pure for him to question her inexperience, yet too darkly beautiful for him to resist their beguiling promises.
He waited, body taut as a piano wire, until, with aching sweetness, she once again touched her lips to his. At their joining, a tremor reverberated through him.
He lifted her skirts higher, now trailing his fingers in the wake of the fabric. She leaned into him, her lush body molding itself against his. Slowly, he slipped his legs between hers, hands coming to rest on the bare skin of her upper thighs as he eased her onto the wooden plank of the makeshift desk. She gave him a startled look, and he felt her hand, still resting on his neck, shift uncertainly. Then he ran his palms along the front of her thighs, down to her knees, and she arched, thrusting her neck into the crook of his shoulder with a soft moan.
He paused, welcoming her reaction and the feel of her silky skin under his fingers. He could imagine what she felt at that moment: the hard, smooth wood against the bare skin of her bottom, the cool air rushing along her bare legs where he’d lifted her skirts, and the touch of his fingers as he slid them from her knees along her sensitive inner thighs.
When he reached the juncture of those thighs, he pushed gently, coaxing her to open for him. At his slight insistence, she seemed to come to her senses.
“No. You shouldn’t.” Her voice was thick and low.
His fingers dipped, tangling in the soft hair under her skirts. “You know how to stop me,” he murmured, lowering his head so that his cheek rested against hers. He put his lips to her ear and felt the thick chocolate curls that had come loose from her upsweep brush silky against his chin. “Open for me, cara.”
Her head lolled back, and though she didn’t move her legs, he felt the muscles relax. He kissed her just under the line of her jaw, lips playing against the responsive skin as he eased the fingers of one hand between her legs, parting her with the other. He felt a jolt course through her when his finger touched her and then a small tremor.
She was moist, ready for him. With a slow, deliberate stroke, he caressed her, attuned to her every reaction—the quickening pace of her breathing, the trembling of her body, the small gasps as she clutched him, now with both hands.
“What’s happening?” Her words w
ere punctuated by sharp intakes of breath.
“I’m touching you, cara.”
The fingers that had rested on his neck dug into the muscles of his shoulders, and he knew she would not stop him now. Knew she felt too much pleasure to go back.
“You like this,” he murmured against the velvet of her neck. She writhed against him in response. “This is pleasure,” he whispered. “I would fill you with pleasure. Fill you with me.”
With a swift stroke, his finger entered her, and her slick folds tightened around him. She moaned as he moved his thumb to the place where he knew she throbbed.
“I...I can’t think,” she gasped.
“Don’t think,” he directed, breathless himself. “Just feel.”
Shifting restlessly, she clutched him tighter, crying out, then plunging herself against him. “Oh, Ethan,” she cried as he stroked her. “Oh—” Her eyes met his, dark with stirrings of desire. “I knew you were bad,” she sighed, pushing against him.
“You have no idea.”
He moved his fingers deftly against her, taking her higher, measuring her reaction to gauge her pleasure. He could feel how close she was to climaxing again, and lowering his mouth to hers, reclaimed her lips in a penetrating kiss. She responded immediately, pulling him closer. And once again he was enveloped by her—rich and sweet and making him hunger for more. Through the haze of desire, he heard her knocking on something. For a moment he thought she had kicked one of the barrels supporting the wooden plank where she sat. But the sound continued.
Insistent.
He tore his mouth from hers. Devil take him if the knocking wasn’t coming from outside.
“Damn!”
Someone was tapping on the tack house door.
“My lord?” He heard an all-too-familiar male voice.
“A moment,” he answered. In one swift motion, he stepped away from Francesca, threw her skirts down, and, lifting her, set her down on the floor to the side of the makeshift table.
He flung himself into the rickety chair, ignored its loud squeal of disapproval. “Enter.”
The door creaked open, and Pocket peered through the shadows, white handkerchief in hand so his fingers did not touch the door handle. “I am terribly sorry to disturb you, my lord.” The valet stepped gingerly into the tack room. “But there is a matter we must discuss. I am afraid it cannot wait and requires your full attention.”