Read Online Like No Other Lover by Julie Anne Long - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Julie Anne Long
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witness it. Lady Windermere talked on and on. Lord Milthorpe’s chin was slightly turned toward the window like a weathervane, as though his body very much would have preferred to be outside. Violet giggled at something her cousin said, mercifully oblivious to the fact that her brother was about to kiss her guest.
And Cynthia slipped out of the room to follow Miles, her heart knocking inside her chest with woodpecker ferocity.
She saw him nowhere.
But suddenly she heard a throat clear from the aforementioned alcove, a halfcircle carved for the situation of a statue that had been removed for cleaning or whatever wealthy people did to statues. He fit into it like a statue himself.
With a peculiar sense of observing herself do it, Cynthia went to him.
Paused before him.
He loomed both like shelter and an encroaching storm: dark hair, dark eyes, dark coat, large hands, and she was momentarily confused, like a vole finding sunlight blotted by the shadow of a hawk.
He hesitated not at all. One of his large hands came to rest, very lightly, at her waist. She steeled herself. And put her face up as Miles put his face down.
Miles almost laughed.
What on earth was he doing ? He didn’t recognize himself in this… maneuvering . What did he hope to prove or gain, precisely, by kissing a woman who did not want to be kissed by him? When so many others did want to be kissed by him?
But given that he’d just proved that Cynthia Brightly was willing to use kisses as currency, backing away now perversely seemed dishonorable. Or so he told himself. He’d better do it, and quickly.
So he came at the kiss like diving into cold water and swiftly touched his lips to her.
Oh, God.
Soft . Soft. So soft .
He was ashamed of how inadequate the word was.
His eyes closed against a breath-robbing spike of desire; his hands on her waist. His lips hovered against the undreamt of vulnerability of lips; her breath, soft and warm, rushed over his. He couldn’t lift his head again. Somehow this kiss had created its own gravity, and he was at its mercy.
Realization finally caught up with impulse: he thought of his father’s watch, and how the relief of conquering that mystery had been worth the consequences. He wanted to take Cynthia apart, to discover whether a woman’s heart ticked inside her. If he understood her, solved the mystery of her, then she would cease to torment him.
And he knew the power of a kiss to unravel a woman.
I don’t want to kiss you, Mr. Redmond.
She would forget even how to speak when he was done with her.
And so he took another kiss. His mouth was a feather, a mist, a whisper over hers; again, and softly, softly, he brushed it over hers. Showing her that a world of sensation could be had from just his lips meeting, caressing hers; implying a universe of sensation lay everywhere in her body. She sighed, that involuntary, irresistible sound that signaled the brink of surrender. Her lips slipped apart; her breath mingled with his. Her hazy blue eyes disappeared behind her lids.
Oh, God.
He wanted to devour her. He thought of softness, darkness, and wetness: her tongue twined in his, her wet, plum-sweet mouth, the musky damp gathering between her legs, the silk give of her breasts in his hands and the ruched silk of her nipples, her round thighs. Take, take, take . His hands were greedy; they wanted; they urged him. His cock swelled, ached. He was mad.
The one bit of sanity left to him somehow knew that way lay quicksand.
And though he wanted, wanted, wanted , he did nothing but softly kiss her.
Their lips danced and breath danced over each other; still, he did not breach hers with his tongue. His hands remained, just barely, within his control, resting at the nip of her waist.
But now no space remained between their bodies. She was all he breathed, all he felt; his world was soap, musk, female, heat, supple, soft. Her belly beneath the fragile muslin of her proper day dress brushed against the ferocious
And Cynthia slipped out of the room to follow Miles, her heart knocking inside her chest with woodpecker ferocity.
She saw him nowhere.
But suddenly she heard a throat clear from the aforementioned alcove, a halfcircle carved for the situation of a statue that had been removed for cleaning or whatever wealthy people did to statues. He fit into it like a statue himself.
With a peculiar sense of observing herself do it, Cynthia went to him.
Paused before him.
He loomed both like shelter and an encroaching storm: dark hair, dark eyes, dark coat, large hands, and she was momentarily confused, like a vole finding sunlight blotted by the shadow of a hawk.
He hesitated not at all. One of his large hands came to rest, very lightly, at her waist. She steeled herself. And put her face up as Miles put his face down.
Miles almost laughed.
What on earth was he doing ? He didn’t recognize himself in this… maneuvering . What did he hope to prove or gain, precisely, by kissing a woman who did not want to be kissed by him? When so many others did want to be kissed by him?
But given that he’d just proved that Cynthia Brightly was willing to use kisses as currency, backing away now perversely seemed dishonorable. Or so he told himself. He’d better do it, and quickly.
So he came at the kiss like diving into cold water and swiftly touched his lips to her.
Oh, God.
Soft . Soft. So soft .
He was ashamed of how inadequate the word was.
His eyes closed against a breath-robbing spike of desire; his hands on her waist. His lips hovered against the undreamt of vulnerability of lips; her breath, soft and warm, rushed over his. He couldn’t lift his head again. Somehow this kiss had created its own gravity, and he was at its mercy.
Realization finally caught up with impulse: he thought of his father’s watch, and how the relief of conquering that mystery had been worth the consequences. He wanted to take Cynthia apart, to discover whether a woman’s heart ticked inside her. If he understood her, solved the mystery of her, then she would cease to torment him.
And he knew the power of a kiss to unravel a woman.
I don’t want to kiss you, Mr. Redmond.
She would forget even how to speak when he was done with her.
And so he took another kiss. His mouth was a feather, a mist, a whisper over hers; again, and softly, softly, he brushed it over hers. Showing her that a world of sensation could be had from just his lips meeting, caressing hers; implying a universe of sensation lay everywhere in her body. She sighed, that involuntary, irresistible sound that signaled the brink of surrender. Her lips slipped apart; her breath mingled with his. Her hazy blue eyes disappeared behind her lids.
Oh, God.
He wanted to devour her. He thought of softness, darkness, and wetness: her tongue twined in his, her wet, plum-sweet mouth, the musky damp gathering between her legs, the silk give of her breasts in his hands and the ruched silk of her nipples, her round thighs. Take, take, take . His hands were greedy; they wanted; they urged him. His cock swelled, ached. He was mad.
The one bit of sanity left to him somehow knew that way lay quicksand.
And though he wanted, wanted, wanted , he did nothing but softly kiss her.
Their lips danced and breath danced over each other; still, he did not breach hers with his tongue. His hands remained, just barely, within his control, resting at the nip of her waist.
But now no space remained between their bodies. She was all he breathed, all he felt; his world was soap, musk, female, heat, supple, soft. Her belly beneath the fragile muslin of her proper day dress brushed against the ferocious
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