Read Online The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe by Sabrina Darby - Free Book Online

fresh straw mixed with wool and the large male who loomed over her, intoxicating her with the touch of his tongue on her neck. After all her attempts to seduce, to take charge, now hardly moving, she reveled in the sensations he wrought from her.
    â€œAngelina,” he said, the sound deep, as if he spoke with difficulty. “I want to see your hair down.”
    She lifted her hand to the messy knot on the top of her head. He rolled to his side, leaned up on his arm, watching her as she pulled out pin after pin. As her hair pillowed unbound beneath her head, he buried his hand in the mass of curls. Even her scalp was sensitive to his touch. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of his hand playing with her hair. Holding it out to its length and then letting it fall.
    â€œI love your hair. I’ve wanted to see it down for ages.” His voice was deep, thick and she thought he might say more but then his lips were at her temple, soft and warm. A touch that made her want to curl up against him.
    â€œAges?” she repeated with a laugh. “It does feel as though we’ve known each other for quite a while, does it not?” Felt as if time had stopped outside this castle, outside of Auldale. As if, at that moment, nothing mattered anywhere else in England. In the world.
    Her laughter faded. His eyes were so warm, and she could see the fire reflected in his irises.
    â€œMake love to me,” she whispered.
    â€œHmm.” He pulled one of the tendrils of her hair down to her neck. With his finger, traced where it lay on her skin. Then he bent down and she arched her head back as he licked at the spot his finger had been just a moment before. The hum of his voice against her skin was gravelly, low. “I thought that was what I was doing.”

 
    C HAPTER E IGHT
    T he first time Angelina had ever been with a man, she’d been seventeen and relatively ignorant. Oh, she’d understood that men and women were naked together under the blankets, and moved and moaned and made all sorts of jokes to each other that sounded normal but seemed to mean something else that made them laugh riotously. But when she’d lain down with that actor on a pile of hay in a local farmer’s barn (how odd, now, to be making love on a pile of hay again), for her part it had been a shy, rough tumble that had left her with a pain between her legs and the idea that suddenly she knew everything.
    Of course, she didn’t, and when she’d been Alverley’s mistress, he’d taught her all manner of sexual relations she’d never dreamed of. It had been laughable what an innocent she still was when she came to his bed.
    Here, now, was John Martin, showing her there was still so much to learn.
    A man could make love to a woman with the most tender of touches. Not as a receptacle for his lust, but as another being and body he worshipped with his own.
    John’s touch was so . . . reverent.
    â€œUp with you now,” he murmured, his hands on her arms, pulling her to sit. She resisted for one moment, simply to feel completely in his grasp, held up only by him. Then finally, she complied, wondering what would come next.
    He shifted, moved behind her. Brushed her hair to the side and pressed his lips—
    She gasped at the contact, at the touch of his tongue on the back of her neck. Then she sighed as his hands moved, at the telltale pull of fabric as he undid the laces of her dress. When the neckline gaped he pulled her back against him, his mouth open and hot on her shoulder, his hands delving under the soft muslin, under the stiffer fabric of her stays, the border of her chemise, lifting her breasts to the cool air and his hot hands.
    He cupped the flesh, teased her nipples, squeezing them between strong fingers. Sensation ran rivers down her body, pooled at her core, burning, demanding. She twisted in his arms, lifting her mouth to his even as she pushed at his shoulders, wanting him