Read Online A Lyon's Share by Janet Dailey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janet Dailey
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been kindled somewhere in her mid-section.
"Goodnight, Joan," Brandt said at last.
"Goodnight … Brandt." She couldn't help hesitating over his name. Yet, in the circumstances, it seemed ludicrous to refer to him as Mr. Lyon.
Closing her eyes, she listened to and felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her nose was intoxicated by the strange mingling of tobacco smoke, spicy after-shave lotion and his heady masculine scent. She prayed for sleep to deaden her senses. Her muscles ached from trying to hold herself away from him, or at least not to relax against him.
His right arm was resting lightly over her waist. Unbidden the thought came to her, wondering what it would be like to be the recipient of his caresses. A quicksilver shudder of delight danced over her skin to her shoulders.
"Are you cold?" Brandt inquired softly.
Automatically her head moved in the direction of his voice, freezing abruptly when her cheek encountered his mouth and chin. "A little," she lied, unable to explain it any other way.
He edged the rest of his body closer, scorching her skin through the material of her clothes. There didn't seem any part of him that wasn't touching her and filling her with dangerous longings. Her heart stopped, then started again with a swift rush.
"Is that better?" The movement of his mouth against her cheek, so very close to the corner of her mouth, seemed to paralyze her.
The affirmative "yes" was choked from her parched throat.
"What's the matter?" The soft guarded tone added to her confusion.
Opening her darkening eyes, Joan tried uselessly to focus them on the face next to her. "Nothing," she denied, but in a weak, faltering voice.
In an effort to free herself from the disturbing closeness of his mouth, she drew her head back into the corner of the sofa, keeping her face towards him. His right hand left her waist to brush the tangle of amber from her cheek.
"You're trembling," he accused gently.
"Please, it's nothing," she whispered. Tears of humiliation burned her eyes.
"I don't accept that, Joan," he said flatly.
"Please. Let's just go to sleep, Brandt," she insisted with a throbbing quiver in her voice.
"Not until you tell me what's wrong."
The firmness of his low voice sent a bubble of hysteria into her throat to lodge there. How could she possibly tell him she wanted him to make love to her, to feel the caress of his hands and the warmth of his lips?
"Brandt." The aching sigh of his name was more revealing than she realized.
The sudden tenseness of his muscles was communicated immediately to her. In the darkness she could only sense the slow movement of the head beside her as it came closer. Her lips trembled at the light touch of his mouth, against them, feather light, not a kiss but a hesitant caress.
When his mouth moved an inch away, it was the moment to rebuff his advance. But she couldn't. She had fought so long against his attraction that she simply didn't have the willpower to deny it any longer.
His hand curved around the side of her neck, his fingers curling into her hair as he raised her head the fraction of an inch that was needed to meet his descending mouth. There was a bursting wave of heat at the immediate possession of his kiss, a dazzling unleashing of explosions.
As his body weight shifted above her, Joan slipped her arms around his waist, spreading her fingers over the taut muscles of his back. His mastery and sensuous passion gave him unlimited power and she moaned softly in surrender as the command of his mouth parted her lips. She was a captive, a willing slave to his wishes, and Brandt rewarded her by letting her see the dizzying heights.
But it wasn't only with her lips that he demanded a response. The gentle exploratory caress of his hands was deliberately kindling more flames in the rest of her body, slowly building to a crescendo that would match the urgency of his hunger. Yet his very gentleness, his sureness persuaded her to sweep aside any fear.
When his
"Goodnight, Joan," Brandt said at last.
"Goodnight … Brandt." She couldn't help hesitating over his name. Yet, in the circumstances, it seemed ludicrous to refer to him as Mr. Lyon.
Closing her eyes, she listened to and felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her nose was intoxicated by the strange mingling of tobacco smoke, spicy after-shave lotion and his heady masculine scent. She prayed for sleep to deaden her senses. Her muscles ached from trying to hold herself away from him, or at least not to relax against him.
His right arm was resting lightly over her waist. Unbidden the thought came to her, wondering what it would be like to be the recipient of his caresses. A quicksilver shudder of delight danced over her skin to her shoulders.
"Are you cold?" Brandt inquired softly.
Automatically her head moved in the direction of his voice, freezing abruptly when her cheek encountered his mouth and chin. "A little," she lied, unable to explain it any other way.
He edged the rest of his body closer, scorching her skin through the material of her clothes. There didn't seem any part of him that wasn't touching her and filling her with dangerous longings. Her heart stopped, then started again with a swift rush.
"Is that better?" The movement of his mouth against her cheek, so very close to the corner of her mouth, seemed to paralyze her.
The affirmative "yes" was choked from her parched throat.
"What's the matter?" The soft guarded tone added to her confusion.
Opening her darkening eyes, Joan tried uselessly to focus them on the face next to her. "Nothing," she denied, but in a weak, faltering voice.
In an effort to free herself from the disturbing closeness of his mouth, she drew her head back into the corner of the sofa, keeping her face towards him. His right hand left her waist to brush the tangle of amber from her cheek.
"You're trembling," he accused gently.
"Please, it's nothing," she whispered. Tears of humiliation burned her eyes.
"I don't accept that, Joan," he said flatly.
"Please. Let's just go to sleep, Brandt," she insisted with a throbbing quiver in her voice.
"Not until you tell me what's wrong."
The firmness of his low voice sent a bubble of hysteria into her throat to lodge there. How could she possibly tell him she wanted him to make love to her, to feel the caress of his hands and the warmth of his lips?
"Brandt." The aching sigh of his name was more revealing than she realized.
The sudden tenseness of his muscles was communicated immediately to her. In the darkness she could only sense the slow movement of the head beside her as it came closer. Her lips trembled at the light touch of his mouth, against them, feather light, not a kiss but a hesitant caress.
When his mouth moved an inch away, it was the moment to rebuff his advance. But she couldn't. She had fought so long against his attraction that she simply didn't have the willpower to deny it any longer.
His hand curved around the side of her neck, his fingers curling into her hair as he raised her head the fraction of an inch that was needed to meet his descending mouth. There was a bursting wave of heat at the immediate possession of his kiss, a dazzling unleashing of explosions.
As his body weight shifted above her, Joan slipped her arms around his waist, spreading her fingers over the taut muscles of his back. His mastery and sensuous passion gave him unlimited power and she moaned softly in surrender as the command of his mouth parted her lips. She was a captive, a willing slave to his wishes, and Brandt rewarded her by letting her see the dizzying heights.
But it wasn't only with her lips that he demanded a response. The gentle exploratory caress of his hands was deliberately kindling more flames in the rest of her body, slowly building to a crescendo that would match the urgency of his hunger. Yet his very gentleness, his sureness persuaded her to sweep aside any fear.
When his
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