Read Online Heaven in His Arms by Lisa Ann Verge - Free Book Online Page B

pine-scented air, clinging like dew to soft, soft skin.
    Dieu! It had been too long. Pure passion in his arms she was, all quivering, curvy, and warm. He slid his hands off her shoulders and wound them around her back. She fit against him, the fullness of her bosom giving against his chest, swelling soft, soft, even as she stiffened. He slid his hands down farther, to her narrow waist, digging his fingers into her side . . . only to come against the hard whalebone rib of her corset. Damn the Frenchwoman's clothing, all those laces and knots and rigid seams and layers—for man's benefit, they said, all these locks and keys. He wanted to feel bare, hot flesh, not seams and satin. He buried his free hand in the silk of her curls, pulling her head back to fix his lips more firmly on her own. His blood coursed hot and fast through his veins.
    The tips of her nails dug into his linen shirt, her only movement other than the give of her body and lips. Pleasure or resistance? He couldn't tell, and as long as her lips lay open beneath his, Andre refused to retreat. She parted those lips still further to gasp, and he took brazen advantage of the breach. He tasted the juice of her mouth, sweet, and delicious, vaguely naughty, forbidden fruit. But before he could drink fully of the nectar, she began to struggle.
    No, no . . . don't. Dammit, why must Frenchwomen always fight the rush of their blood, the fury of their own passion? He wouldn't hurt her. He'd show her all the pleasure there could be between a man and a woman in lovemaking—and he would see that she would not grow big with child after he left. He held her tighter, trying to squeeze the fight out of her, to see if this struggle were nothing but another parlay in the elaborate French game of refusal and surrender. Her heart raced in her chest. He spread his hand over her lower back. Boldly, he ran his tongue over the silky swell of her lower lip. She started as if she had been struck with fire.
    He didn't like the feel of her shock. Andre released her lips and raised his head only enough to see into her eyes. They were misty and bright, like the color of a shallow lake in the summer sunshine. She no longer looked like the fiery woman who had burst into his room, so full of rage and self-righteousness. She looked young, confused, and thoroughly, thoroughly kissed.
    "What is it, cherie? What troubles you?"
    "You're kissing me."
    He grinned. "Obviously."
    "Does this mean you'll start treating me . . . like a wife?"
    He had been planning to treat her like a wife—in his bed. By the serious expression in her eyes, he knew she meant something more. Her pink tongue darted out and lingered on her lower lip. With an inward groan, he followed the journey of that pink tongue as it swished back and forth across her lower lip. She looked like a child tasting licorice for the first time.
    Andre started. Christ, she'd never been kissed before. He released her abruptly. This was no wayward wife looking for an infidelity. He examined her clothing and his suspicions grew. She dressed too well to be without family or husband. Frenchwomen arriving in the settlements were married almost as soon as they set foot upon Canadian soil, he knew that well enough. His gaze fell to the battered woven case on the floor, which was large enough to hold enough clothes for several days. Perhaps she had run away from her family. Perhaps she was looking for someone to take care of her. For the first time since she'd walked in, Andre began to wonder if there were more to this than he suspected—like a musket-wielding father downstairs, waiting for his daughter to emerge ruined from the stranger's room so he could force him into marriage.
    Ironically, he already was married. Temporary or not, he still had a wife in Quebec. As much as he wanted to lay this woman down on his bed, spread her coppery curls over the pillow, and merge with her supple, young body, he knew he couldn't let this charade continue any