Read Online Midnight Honor by Marsha Canham - Free Book Online

of her sleeve had fallen well below her elbow and when he reached the chenille barrier it was a simple matter just to turn and press his lips into the curve of her neck.
    Anne could barely hold her head steady. His mouth was warm, his tongue hot and moist where it swirled up to flirt with her earlobe, then scrolled a provocative path down to the collar of her robe. His hand was gently peeling aside the chenille, causing rivers of new sensations to flow downward, and Anne feared she was so near the brink of an orgasm already, the seduction would end before it had even begun. Moreover, he would know at a glance how aroused she was, for the skin across her breasts had shrunk so tight, the buds of her nipples were like small, ripe berries.
    Without removing his mouth from her body he came slowly down on one knee before her. He pushed the robe off her arms and his hands smoothed over her breasts, cuppingthem in his palms. He wet each nipple with his tongue then watched, fascinated, as the firelight glistened off the blushed tips.
    “Jealousy,” he murmured, “can be a terrible thing. Almost as terrible as pride.”
    Anne might have had the wit to think of a response but for the thrill of feeling his lips part wider and slowly take her breast into his mouth. She melted forward, her fingers twisting into his hair, and he obliged by sucking harder, chafing her flesh with his tongue until she started making small smothered sounds in her throat.
    But when she would have slipped off the edge of the chair and joined him eagerly on the hearthrug, he stopped her. His lips released her flesh with a soft, wet suckling sound and his hands went down to her thighs, coaxing them apart. A disbelieving heartbeat later, he was pushing that same warm and teasing mouth into the V of feathery copper curls, and Anne had to grip the edges of the chair to keep from lurching right off.
    Her warning cry brought his hands around her hips to brace her through the first ungovernable rush of pleasure. His tongue prowled and probed. It thrust deep between the slippery folds and traced swirling patterns on flesh that shivered and tightened with each wave of gratification.
    “Stop,” she gasped. “You must stop. I cannot bear it.”
    “You can,” he murmured. “And you will, for I have not even begun.”
    He ignored her moaned protest and his tongue pushed deeper, joined now by the wicked skill of long, tapered fingers—skill that had her clutching at his shoulders, and had her writhing so dangerously close to the edge of the chair that eventually he had no choice but to lift her and set her down on the rug beneath him. Once there, with nothing to hamper her pleasure or his, he hooked his arms under her knees and raised them until she was as open and exposed as the harlot she had craved to be only moments ago. This time, when her climax came, she had nowhere to go but up, up, straining into each shattering wave of ecstasy until she was in real danger of fainting.
    Angus relented, but he abandoned her only as long as ittook to kick off his boots and peel away his breeches. Anne watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled his shirt up over his head and flung it away in the shadows. She sighed as he removed his smallclothes, for he stood thick and proud before her, his arousal bucking up against his belly. When he saw where her gaze lingered, he lowered himself between her thighs, but stopped just short of touching her. Instead, he brought her hand forward and bade her wrap her fingers around him.
    Anne let her hand glide over the hard shaft of flesh. The veins were prominent, the head smooth and sleek with the proof of his own intemperate arousal. She watched the response in the pewter gray eyes as she continued to pull and push, and she knew, when he was about as full and hard as he would ever be, there was no more time for teasing.
    He came into her arms again and there was no hesitation, only hunger. She dug her fingers into the hard muscles across