So she gave herself up to it, this strange, new sensation of being kissed, his lips at once somehow both hard and soft, the sound of his breath harsh against her cheek. His fingertips stroking delicately, whisper-soft, along the column of her neck, tilting her chin to better access her mouth. “Much better.”
She gasped as he realigned his lips to hers and robbed her of thought with a single, shocking . . . wicked . . . wonderful caress.
Was that his tongue?
It was . . . gloriously stroking along the seam of her closed lips, coaxing her open, then it seemed he was consuming her, and she was more than willing to allow it. He traced a slow path of fire along her lower lip, and Penelope wondered if it was possible for someone to go mad from pleasure.
Surely not every man kissed like this . . . else women would get nothing done.
He pulled back. “You’re thinking again.”
She was. She was thinking he was magnificent. “I can’t help it.” She shook her head, reaching for him.
“Then I am not doing it correctly.”
Oh dear. If he kissed her any more correctly, her sanity would be threatened.
Perhaps it already was.
She really, honestly didn’t care.
Just as long as he kept at it.
Her hands moved of their own volition, reaching up, stroking through his hair, pulling him closer, until his lips were on hers again, and this time . . . this time, she let herself go.
And kissed him back, reveling in the deep, graveled sound that rose from the back of his throat—the sound that spiraled straight to the core of her and told her, without words, that for all her lack of experience, she’d done something right.
His hands were moving then, up, up until she thought she might die if he didn’t touch her . . . there, on the curve of her breast, sliding wickedly into the torn cloth of her dress, the cloth he’d ripped to save himself the trouble of seducing her.
Not that it seemed as though he would have had any trouble at all.
She stroked one hand down his arm until she was pressing his hand to her, stronger, more firmly, sighing his name into his mouth.
He pulled away at the sound, throwing his greatcoat back to reveal them to the waning firelight, pushing the cloth aside, baring her to his gaze, returning his hand to her, stroking, lifting until she arched toward him.
“Do you like that?” She heard the answer in the question. He knew she’d never in her life felt anything so powerful. So tempting.
“I shouldn’t.” Her hand returned to his, holding him there, against her.
“But you do.” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the base of her neck as his expert fingers found the place where she strained for his touch. She gasped his name. He scraped his teeth across the soft lobe of one ear until she shivered in his arms. “Talk to me.”
“It’s incredible,” she said, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting him to stop.
“Keep talking,” he whispered, peeling the fabric back as he pressed her breast up, baring one aching nipple to the cool room.
He stared at her then, watching the tip pucker at the air or his gaze or both, and Penelope was suddenly horribly embarrassed, hating her imperfections, wishing she was anywhere but there, with him, this perfect specimen of man.
She moved to grasp the greatcoat, afraid that he would see her. That he would judge her. That he would change his mind.
He was faster, clasping her wrists in his hands, staying her movement. “Don’t,” he growled, force in the words. “Never hide yourself from me.”
“I cannot help it. I don’t want . . . you should not look.”
“If you think I’m going to avoid looking at you, you’re mad.” He shifted then, throwing the greatcoat back, out of her reach, making quick work of her destroyed dress, brushing the torn edges away.
He stared at her then, for long moments, until she couldn’t bear watching him anymore for the fear that he might reject her. For it was rejection that she was most used to when it came to his sex. Rejection and refusal and disinterest. And she didn’t think she could bear those things now. From him. Tonight.
She closed her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath, preparing for him to turn away at her plainness. Her imperfections. She was sure he would turn away.
When his lips settled on hers, she thought she might cry.
And then he was taking her mouth in one long kiss, stroking deep until all thought of embarrassment was chased away by desire. Only when she was clinging to the lapels of his coat did he release her from the devastating caress.
One wicked finger circled the tip of her breast lazily, as if they had all the time in the world, and she watched the movement, barely visible in the deep orange glow of the dying fire. Pleasure pooled there, at the tight, puckered tip . . . and in other scandalous places at the sensation.
“Do you like that?” he asked, low and dark. Penelope bit her lip and nodded. “Tell me.”
“Yes . . . yes it’s splendid.” She knew it made her sound simple and unsophisticated, but she could not keep the wonder from her voice.
His fingers did not stop. “It should all feel splendid. You tell me if it doesn’t, and I shall rectify the situation.”
He kissed her neck, running his teeth across the soft skin there. He looked up. “Does that feel splendid?”
“Yes.”
He rewarded her by pressing kisses down her neck, sucking at the delicate skin of her shoulder, licking down the slope of one breast before circling the hard, peaked tip, nipping and caressing—the whole time avoiding the place where she wanted him most. “I’m going to corrupt you,” he promised her skin, one hand sliding down the swell of her stomach, feeling the way the muscles there tensed and quivered at his touch. “I’m going to turn you from light to dark, from good to bad. I’m going to ruin you.” She didn’t care. She was his. He owned her in this moment, with this touch. “And do you know how it will feel?”
She sighed the word this time. “Splendid.”
More than that.
More than she’d ever imagined.
He met her eyes and, without breaking their gaze, he took the tip of one breast deep into his warm mouth, worrying the flesh with tongue and teeth before pulling in lush tugs that had her moaning his name and plunging her fingers into his hair.
“Michael . . .” she whispered, afraid that she might break the spell of pleasure. She closed her eyes.
He lifted his head, and she hated him for stopping. “Look at me.” The words were a demand. When she met his gaze once more, his hand slid beneath the pooled fabric of her dress, fingers brushing against curls, and she snapped her thighs shut with a little cry of dismay. He couldn’t possibly . . . not there . . .
But he returned his attention to her breast, kissing and sucking until her inhibitions were lost and her thighs parted, allowing him to slide his fingers between them, resting softly against her but not moving—a wicked, wonderful temptation. She stiffened again but did not refuse him access this time.
“I promise you shall like this. Trust me.”
She gave a shaky laugh as his fingers moved, widening her thighs, gaining access to her core. “Said the lion to the lamb.”
He tongued the soft skin at the underside of her breast before turning to the other, lavishing the same attention there as she writhed beneath him and sighed his name. His fingers were wicked, separating her secret folds with one finger and stroking gently, slowly, until he found the warm, wet entrance to her.