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Authors: Amelia Hart
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sink back into him and rest in those hands. She remembered Mama brushing her hair when she was a small ch ild. It felt a little like that; enough for instinct to try and soothe her. But she must not forget the danger.
She sighed.
His fingers moved on to her neck, feathering gently up and down that slender column.
He must be very close to me, she thought as she felt his breath on her again. Then there was the lightest brush of skin against skin, laid on her shoulder. Another, and another, till she realised it was his lips that touched her. Towards her neck they came, those lips. She waited for the tension to return, but it was not there.
Her body was waiting for his touch. It knew something she did not. It wanted something she did not.
Up her neck wandered that delicate brushstroke, and reached the corner of her jaw. His fingers, wrapped deeply in her hair, began slightly to pull, bringing her head around.
She had no choice but to lean towards him, and found his broad shoulder there, waiting for her head to rest upon it. She sank against him, and his mouth settled on hers as lightly as a butterfly.
It was so soft. So incredibly soft. She had not known a man’s mouth could be like that. Like . . . rose petals. Like . . . like nothing else she knew.
The tension that had held her so tight and trembling was meltin g, changing into something else; an intense, quivering, bone-melting something else; such a strong sensation. Like a tide, sweeping her away. She tried to examine the feeling, to conquer it with her will, control it.
But there was too much going on, in her mind, in her body, and outside her body. She couldn’t focus; could not hold it all together.
Into his mouth she sighed again, and their breaths mingled. His large hand came up to cup her head.
She was weightless. At sea. All caught up and adrift in the unknown. Her body was so warm, hot almost. No, his body was hot. It felt burning against her side.
She pressed a little harder ag ainst his lips, wanting more of . . . something. He moved his own lips across hers, and back again; a small caress. Then he delicately slid his tongue across her lip.
The smallest flick, and it was gone, his lips pressing hers more firmly. Again, a second flick, on her damp inner flesh.
She hummed a little, and discovered her fingers were wrapped in his shirt front ; But before she had time to ponder that further, he opened his mouth and took her lower lip between his, sucking gently.
“ Ohhh,” she uttered almost silently.
His fingers were in her hair, massaging her scalp. She took a deep breath and breathed in the scent of him again, learning it. There was pipe smoke from the tavern, and sandalwood, and under that a clean, fresh smell that was very masculine. She breathed it in again, and realised she could breathe so deeply because her dress had been loosened.
Before she could react to the thought he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue slickly over hers, a coaxing visitor.
Her own lifted shyly, hesitantly to meet it, and she forgot completely about the dress. There was so much sensation; so strange and so pleasurable. She wanted to melt into him. Her clothes were harsh and chafing against her skin. Ripples of heat went up and down her spine.
Then there was a jolt, a spear of pleasure that arced from her chest to deep in her abdomen. She threw back her head and gasped, registering that his hand was on her breast, his fingers squeezing her nipple.
“Exquisitely sensitive,” he murmured in satisfaction, moving his mouth down her neck, dropping his head down to press his lips against the creamy flesh he had revealed. One hand stayed behind, massaging the back of her neck just under her skull. It left her weak, surrendered in his grasp.
He flicked her nipple with his tongue tip and then sucked on it gently. She thought she might pass out from the wash of pleasure. Her dress was undone now, sliding from her shoulders, his fingers on the tabs of her petticoats. The
She sighed.
His fingers moved on to her neck, feathering gently up and down that slender column.
He must be very close to me, she thought as she felt his breath on her again. Then there was the lightest brush of skin against skin, laid on her shoulder. Another, and another, till she realised it was his lips that touched her. Towards her neck they came, those lips. She waited for the tension to return, but it was not there.
Her body was waiting for his touch. It knew something she did not. It wanted something she did not.
Up her neck wandered that delicate brushstroke, and reached the corner of her jaw. His fingers, wrapped deeply in her hair, began slightly to pull, bringing her head around.
She had no choice but to lean towards him, and found his broad shoulder there, waiting for her head to rest upon it. She sank against him, and his mouth settled on hers as lightly as a butterfly.
It was so soft. So incredibly soft. She had not known a man’s mouth could be like that. Like . . . rose petals. Like . . . like nothing else she knew.
The tension that had held her so tight and trembling was meltin g, changing into something else; an intense, quivering, bone-melting something else; such a strong sensation. Like a tide, sweeping her away. She tried to examine the feeling, to conquer it with her will, control it.
But there was too much going on, in her mind, in her body, and outside her body. She couldn’t focus; could not hold it all together.
Into his mouth she sighed again, and their breaths mingled. His large hand came up to cup her head.
She was weightless. At sea. All caught up and adrift in the unknown. Her body was so warm, hot almost. No, his body was hot. It felt burning against her side.
She pressed a little harder ag ainst his lips, wanting more of . . . something. He moved his own lips across hers, and back again; a small caress. Then he delicately slid his tongue across her lip.
The smallest flick, and it was gone, his lips pressing hers more firmly. Again, a second flick, on her damp inner flesh.
She hummed a little, and discovered her fingers were wrapped in his shirt front ; But before she had time to ponder that further, he opened his mouth and took her lower lip between his, sucking gently.
“ Ohhh,” she uttered almost silently.
His fingers were in her hair, massaging her scalp. She took a deep breath and breathed in the scent of him again, learning it. There was pipe smoke from the tavern, and sandalwood, and under that a clean, fresh smell that was very masculine. She breathed it in again, and realised she could breathe so deeply because her dress had been loosened.
Before she could react to the thought he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue slickly over hers, a coaxing visitor.
Her own lifted shyly, hesitantly to meet it, and she forgot completely about the dress. There was so much sensation; so strange and so pleasurable. She wanted to melt into him. Her clothes were harsh and chafing against her skin. Ripples of heat went up and down her spine.
Then there was a jolt, a spear of pleasure that arced from her chest to deep in her abdomen. She threw back her head and gasped, registering that his hand was on her breast, his fingers squeezing her nipple.
“Exquisitely sensitive,” he murmured in satisfaction, moving his mouth down her neck, dropping his head down to press his lips against the creamy flesh he had revealed. One hand stayed behind, massaging the back of her neck just under her skull. It left her weak, surrendered in his grasp.
He flicked her nipple with his tongue tip and then sucked on it gently. She thought she might pass out from the wash of pleasure. Her dress was undone now, sliding from her shoulders, his fingers on the tabs of her petticoats. The
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