Carole Mortimer - Scandalous Regency Nights

“Open,” she murmured, the thrumming in her veins growing stronger, more demanding.

He did, and his grin was that of a wolf about to be fed a small tender morsel. She popped the tiny cracker in his mouth and watched him chew, experiencing the delightful burst of salty flavor in her mind as his eyes closed in pleasure.

He picked up his wine glass and held it to her lips, watching as she sipped and swallowed, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

How did he breathe so evenly, the wretch, when her heart raced out of control? She reached for her glass, determined not to be beaten. The glass shook only a little as she brought it to his mouth. His eyelashes flicked up as the rim touched his bottom lip, his gray eyes, glinting with more than laughter, met her gaze. Her hand trembled. He grasped her wrist, held her hand steady and drank deep. She felt so weak, he might have been draining her blood.

He took the glass from her slackened grip and placed it on the table. Fine trembles ran through her body, running deep beneath the surface, an ache in her center, a yearning in her heart. The heart she could do nothing about. The rest? Well, time would tell. She managed a smile.

He returned his attention to the platters, his hand hovering above the dainty offerings, looking for the choicest piece. For her. She felt like some medieval lady, with her knight searching his trencher for the most tender cut of meat. He settled on a crescent of pastry. It hovered at her lips, and unable to resist the gentle urgaing in his expression, she opened her mouth.

Dear God. It tasted wonderful. What was in it, she could not tell. Something savory rather than sweet: spiced meat perhaps. The pleasure was all about him, his look of satisfaction, the slight curl to his lips, the scorch of his eyes. He selected again and again, little bursts of heaven filling her mouth, until she put up a hand in defeat.

He dabbed at her mouth with his napkin. “Crumbs,” he said. He refilled their glasses. They chinked them together and drank an unspoken toast that was all about what would happen next. Her pulse beat faster.

“Eat something,” she said, her voice husky.

He leaned forward, tilted her chin with the tip of his finger, and pressed his lips to hers, a gentle brush, a butterfly wing of a kiss, a sweet touch of his tongue. Sweet sensations tingled in her breasts, tightened her stomach.

She put a hand on his collar for support and deepened the kiss, swept his champagne-flavored mouth with her tongue. Delicious.

His hand, warm, steadying, strong, came up to her ribs. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, a tantalizing touch, a sensual promise. A cry of surrender lodged in her throat.

Too fast. Too soon. She felt thrilled, and wicked and completely out of her depth. Today had simply been a testing of the waters. To meet a man she liked so quickly seemed beyond the realm of possibility. Dare she trust the desires of her body, when it knew so little?

He must have felt her slight resistance, for he pulled slowly away, his lids at half-mast, his breathing faster than before, she noticed with a surge of heat.

“There are chambers upstairs where we could ensure our privacy,” he murmured. “Should you wish?”

He stood and brought her to her feet.

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