Read Online 0425272095 (R) by Jessica Peterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Peterson
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touch.
Henry swallowed, hard, as Caroline leaned against the bureau. Now that her gown was open at the back, its sleeves worked themselves farther and farther off her shoulders with every breath she took. After a beat one of them slipped. Her shoulder was bare.
The same shoulder that had been in his mouth when he’d practically mauled her in the ballroom.
Dear God.
He swallowed again.
She breathed against him, and he breathed against her. He wondered how a naked shoulder could be infinitely more erotic than other, more private naked parts.
Her left hand went to her forehead; with her right, she poured wine into her cup and threw it back in a single gulp.
“Henry,” she whispered. The sound of her voice made him feel the burn behind her closed eyes as his own. “Mr. Lake.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She scoffed. “Maybe we shouldn’t call each other anything.”
“Of course. Yes,” he said. A pause. He was holding himself an inch away from her. It was killing him, the impulse to close the distance between them, to press his body against hers. Resisting it was like resisting the end of night, the approach of morning: inevitably idiotic, vexingly futile.
Frustrating. Waiting out the passing of this moment, and then the next, frustrated him to no end.
He wanted to touch her. God, he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.
But he was hurting her. She was hurting, and it was because of him. He closed his eyes against his guilt. He’d married her, claimed her as his own, and left her the next day.
Henry had no right to touch Caroline. He’d lost that right twelve years ago. He’d lost her. He was a cad, a blackguard, a scalawag of the worst sort.
Still, the desire to claim her again glowed brightly inside him.
He stared down at the skin of her neck; that skin . His fingers burned with the need to touch her there.
Those stray wisps of her hair were stuck to her glistening nape. Without thinking—without meaning to—he reached up and brushed them aside with his thumb.
Caroline sucked in a breath as the skin along her neck and shoulders broke out in a wave of goose bumps. She didn’t say anything.
And then Henry was leaning forward, angling his neck as he lost himself in her nearness. He pressed his mouth, gently,to the bottom corner of her neck, the place where it sloped into shoulder. Her skin singed his lips; he tasted salt, and her.
A flood of memory crashed through him. He knew her, he knew her taste and the curves and hollows of her body, the breathless sounds she made. Across the ballroom she’d been a stranger; but now, up close, she was as familiar as she’d been that summer night so many years ago.
She was his.
At least for now.
His lips were moving up the elegant length of her neck now, slowly, as he savored every inch of skin, and felt the furious working of her pulse in the curve beneath her ear.
Caroline’s eyes were still closed as she tilted her head, baring her throat to him. He held her neck in his hands, holding her closer against him, steadying her against his increasing hunger.
His mouth moved over her jaw to graze the corner of her lips, and then he was turning her toward him, trapping her legs between his own as he at last took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.
A levy broke inside him at that moment, releasing a torrent of emotion, of feeling he hadn’t known he’d been holding inside his chest until now.
Behind his closed lid he saw stars, and then he saw nothing, blind to everything but the riot of sensation that pulsed through him from this place where skin met skin.
In half a heartbeat he was wild with desire. It took his every ounce of self-control to kiss her carefully, thoughtfully, as she ought to be kissed; as he wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to do a thousand other things, too, things he’d learned in the misguided hope that he would one day be able to do them to her . Things that one could only learn in Paris; things that
Henry swallowed, hard, as Caroline leaned against the bureau. Now that her gown was open at the back, its sleeves worked themselves farther and farther off her shoulders with every breath she took. After a beat one of them slipped. Her shoulder was bare.
The same shoulder that had been in his mouth when he’d practically mauled her in the ballroom.
Dear God.
He swallowed again.
She breathed against him, and he breathed against her. He wondered how a naked shoulder could be infinitely more erotic than other, more private naked parts.
Her left hand went to her forehead; with her right, she poured wine into her cup and threw it back in a single gulp.
“Henry,” she whispered. The sound of her voice made him feel the burn behind her closed eyes as his own. “Mr. Lake.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She scoffed. “Maybe we shouldn’t call each other anything.”
“Of course. Yes,” he said. A pause. He was holding himself an inch away from her. It was killing him, the impulse to close the distance between them, to press his body against hers. Resisting it was like resisting the end of night, the approach of morning: inevitably idiotic, vexingly futile.
Frustrating. Waiting out the passing of this moment, and then the next, frustrated him to no end.
He wanted to touch her. God, he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.
But he was hurting her. She was hurting, and it was because of him. He closed his eyes against his guilt. He’d married her, claimed her as his own, and left her the next day.
Henry had no right to touch Caroline. He’d lost that right twelve years ago. He’d lost her. He was a cad, a blackguard, a scalawag of the worst sort.
Still, the desire to claim her again glowed brightly inside him.
He stared down at the skin of her neck; that skin . His fingers burned with the need to touch her there.
Those stray wisps of her hair were stuck to her glistening nape. Without thinking—without meaning to—he reached up and brushed them aside with his thumb.
Caroline sucked in a breath as the skin along her neck and shoulders broke out in a wave of goose bumps. She didn’t say anything.
And then Henry was leaning forward, angling his neck as he lost himself in her nearness. He pressed his mouth, gently,to the bottom corner of her neck, the place where it sloped into shoulder. Her skin singed his lips; he tasted salt, and her.
A flood of memory crashed through him. He knew her, he knew her taste and the curves and hollows of her body, the breathless sounds she made. Across the ballroom she’d been a stranger; but now, up close, she was as familiar as she’d been that summer night so many years ago.
She was his.
At least for now.
His lips were moving up the elegant length of her neck now, slowly, as he savored every inch of skin, and felt the furious working of her pulse in the curve beneath her ear.
Caroline’s eyes were still closed as she tilted her head, baring her throat to him. He held her neck in his hands, holding her closer against him, steadying her against his increasing hunger.
His mouth moved over her jaw to graze the corner of her lips, and then he was turning her toward him, trapping her legs between his own as he at last took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.
A levy broke inside him at that moment, releasing a torrent of emotion, of feeling he hadn’t known he’d been holding inside his chest until now.
Behind his closed lid he saw stars, and then he saw nothing, blind to everything but the riot of sensation that pulsed through him from this place where skin met skin.
In half a heartbeat he was wild with desire. It took his every ounce of self-control to kiss her carefully, thoughtfully, as she ought to be kissed; as he wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to do a thousand other things, too, things he’d learned in the misguided hope that he would one day be able to do them to her . Things that one could only learn in Paris; things that
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