Read Online Sarah Gabriel by Stealing Sophie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stealing Sophie
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resist leaning closer.
“If I was as wicked as you think, madam,” he intoned softly, “I would have done that to you already, with the heather for a bed. Why wait to bring you to my devil’s nest, hey?”
She did not flinch, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, nor did she move away. She only watched him. Her courage and will seemed as fine as good steel.
With his free hand, he touched her hair, smoothing the gossamer strands that fluttered in the breeze. He traced his knuckles over her cheek and cupped the side of her face in his hand. He let his fingers slide into the thickness of her hair, so soft and cool to the touch that he took in his breath sharply.
“Tell me what you think should happen,” he whispered as he rubbed his thumb over her cheek. He lowered his head and felt her breath gentle upon his lips. “What you want to happen.”
She tilted her head in his hand, closed her eyes, and did not speak. But he knew what she thought, as if the thought were his own. He felt her heart beat in tandem with his.
Her eyes drifted shut. “If you were to kiss me again,” she whispered, “perhaps we would see…what would come of that.”
Desire swept through him like a crashing wave. Slipping his arms around her, he lowered his head and kissed her, his heart leaping like wildfire.
Another kiss followed that, a chain of kisses, and he could not seem to stop. Each felt deeper, more exhilarating than the last. She tasted of flowers andmountain air, with a hint of whiskey. As she gasped and pressed closer, Connor forgot all else but kissing her. No barriers existed between them, no danger, no doubt, neither of them a stranger to the other.
She tilted her head and sighed, lifted her hands to cup his shoulders, opened her mouth slightly under his, and he let the kiss intensify, parting her lips with his own, tasting the moistness within. He felt himself harden and fill, wanted desperately to sink into the luscious sensation of her.
The feel of her firm body against his inflamed him further, and the heavy pulsing need began, a craving that could not be satisfied with kisses. He traced his fingers along her neck, smoothed over her shoulder, brushed lower, so that his fingers shaped the creamy curve of her upper breast and the stiff roundness of the bodice beneath. He slid farther down, to the small, taut span of her waist confined in stays and satin. Moving his hand under her cloak, he found the spot at the small of her back where he had earlier torn the stitches of her dress to loosen her stays.
He did not know what was happening to him—he could not take her here, now, like the brute she believed him to be. He would not surrender to the desire that skewered his mind away from logical, reasonable purpose.
Heart pounding, he felt her lips quiver against his, questing for more. He summoned inner strength and broke away.
For a moment he tipped his brow to hers and held her by the waist, catching his breath. She touched his jaw, her fingers gentle as butterflies. Her touch was poignant, and forgiving as well. Connor squeezed his eyes shut.
He did not deserve her forgiveness, her gratitude. He did not deserve to kiss her as he had done.
“I do not even know you, Connor MacPherson,” she said softly. “And you should not be touching me at all…but when you do, it feels…right, some how.”
He exhaled a rueful laugh. Inside, he agreed. Lovemaking with her would be magnificent, he realized, beyond any dream or hope he could ever have. Each time they kissed, he sensed her passion rising hot to meet his own.
Silent, he could think of no good reply to her words. He had not anticipated the desire he felt for her, which went beyond simple lusty urge. Hellions and temper fits he could understand and handle, but he had not expected sweetness and thankfulness in his stolen bride. Nor had he been prepared for his own strong feelings and reactions.
Marrying an impetuous virago to protect her was one thing, but
“If I was as wicked as you think, madam,” he intoned softly, “I would have done that to you already, with the heather for a bed. Why wait to bring you to my devil’s nest, hey?”
She did not flinch, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, nor did she move away. She only watched him. Her courage and will seemed as fine as good steel.
With his free hand, he touched her hair, smoothing the gossamer strands that fluttered in the breeze. He traced his knuckles over her cheek and cupped the side of her face in his hand. He let his fingers slide into the thickness of her hair, so soft and cool to the touch that he took in his breath sharply.
“Tell me what you think should happen,” he whispered as he rubbed his thumb over her cheek. He lowered his head and felt her breath gentle upon his lips. “What you want to happen.”
She tilted her head in his hand, closed her eyes, and did not speak. But he knew what she thought, as if the thought were his own. He felt her heart beat in tandem with his.
Her eyes drifted shut. “If you were to kiss me again,” she whispered, “perhaps we would see…what would come of that.”
Desire swept through him like a crashing wave. Slipping his arms around her, he lowered his head and kissed her, his heart leaping like wildfire.
Another kiss followed that, a chain of kisses, and he could not seem to stop. Each felt deeper, more exhilarating than the last. She tasted of flowers andmountain air, with a hint of whiskey. As she gasped and pressed closer, Connor forgot all else but kissing her. No barriers existed between them, no danger, no doubt, neither of them a stranger to the other.
She tilted her head and sighed, lifted her hands to cup his shoulders, opened her mouth slightly under his, and he let the kiss intensify, parting her lips with his own, tasting the moistness within. He felt himself harden and fill, wanted desperately to sink into the luscious sensation of her.
The feel of her firm body against his inflamed him further, and the heavy pulsing need began, a craving that could not be satisfied with kisses. He traced his fingers along her neck, smoothed over her shoulder, brushed lower, so that his fingers shaped the creamy curve of her upper breast and the stiff roundness of the bodice beneath. He slid farther down, to the small, taut span of her waist confined in stays and satin. Moving his hand under her cloak, he found the spot at the small of her back where he had earlier torn the stitches of her dress to loosen her stays.
He did not know what was happening to him—he could not take her here, now, like the brute she believed him to be. He would not surrender to the desire that skewered his mind away from logical, reasonable purpose.
Heart pounding, he felt her lips quiver against his, questing for more. He summoned inner strength and broke away.
For a moment he tipped his brow to hers and held her by the waist, catching his breath. She touched his jaw, her fingers gentle as butterflies. Her touch was poignant, and forgiving as well. Connor squeezed his eyes shut.
He did not deserve her forgiveness, her gratitude. He did not deserve to kiss her as he had done.
“I do not even know you, Connor MacPherson,” she said softly. “And you should not be touching me at all…but when you do, it feels…right, some how.”
He exhaled a rueful laugh. Inside, he agreed. Lovemaking with her would be magnificent, he realized, beyond any dream or hope he could ever have. Each time they kissed, he sensed her passion rising hot to meet his own.
Silent, he could think of no good reply to her words. He had not anticipated the desire he felt for her, which went beyond simple lusty urge. Hellions and temper fits he could understand and handle, but he had not expected sweetness and thankfulness in his stolen bride. Nor had he been prepared for his own strong feelings and reactions.
Marrying an impetuous virago to protect her was one thing, but
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