Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

His voice had grown deeper, darker, more gravelly. Would a widow protest? On what grounds?

Giddiness threatened. She hauled in a breath, briefly closed her eyes, battered by conflicting impulses. Panic that his friend might stumble on more than she would wish. The urge to stiffen—not just in response to that, but to his boldness, to the liberties he was taking… her head was spinning. The countering instinct to sink against him, to arch her spine, press her breasts, now aching so strangely, into his hard hands only added to her dizziness.

Then he closed his hands and kneaded.

She lost the last of her breath. Her senses fractured. Her wits fled.

Beyond her control, her spine softened, gave; she had to lean fully against him, her hands dropping helplessly to brace against his muscled thighs.

His fingers shifted, then closed again. Tightened.

Fire lanced through her. She gasped, arched; eyes shut, she let her head fall back as he repeated the torture, then he bent his head to her throat, now exposed. His lips cruised, then settled.

Hot, wet, his mouth covered the spot where her pulse raced. He kissed, licked, laved, all the while massaging her breasts, sending wave after wave of pure sensation rushing through her.

Heat built beneath her skin; the rasp of his tongue over her pulse point shocked and teased her senses. His hands were strong, his grip confident, knowing, his body a wall of hard muscle and bone, holding her there, a captive to delight.

To the pleasure even in her innocence she knew he was orchestrating.

She felt totally at his mercy. And witlessly content to be so.

Madness—but an oh-so-pleasurable insanity.

This had to be lovemaking, a part of it, of the type a nobleman indulged in with his mistress.

Illicit. Exciting. Enthralling…

The moment for protest was long past. Her role was set; eyes closed, head back, she gave herself up to it—she couldn’t draw back now.

Tony was intrigued by her response, with the ardor he sensed beneath her restrained veneer. As he ministered to her senses, learned the curves of her breasts, their weight, their wonder, he cataloged, analyzed, noted for future reference. She was amazingly responsive; her breasts, now sensitive and swollen, filled his hands. She shifted under them, pressing back against him, sirenlike, openly sensuous.

Despite her reserve, an understandable defense for an attractive well-born widow, she couldn’t hide her reactions; she understood what lay between them as well as he. The flames that leapt into being at just a touch were more than strong—they were scorching. They could both feel them licking, beckoning, hungry yet held back.

They couldn’t take things much further yet, but their time would come. On the physical plane, the path ahead was straightforward, but there was much about her he’d yet to learn.

“Your parents.” Releasing her breasts, he nuzzled her ear, gently blew. “When did they die?”

Eyes still closed, Alicia dragged in a breath—it felt like her first in ten minutes. Then she felt a tug at her neckline; opening her eyes, she looked down—to see his long fingers easing the top button of her bodice free. “Ah… Mama died almost two years ago.”

Good Lord! She had to stop this—had to call a halt. If he touched her…

“And your father? From your brothers, I gather he’s been gone a long time.”

Her mouth was dry; she nodded. “Years and years.” Gaze fixed on his busy fingers, she licked her lips.

“And you have no other family? No one close?”

“Ah…no.” She dragged in a breath. “I really think—”

“You’re not supposed to think.”

She blinked, lifted her gaze. “Why not?”

“Because”—his fingers were inexorably descending, leaving her bodice gaping—“at the moment, you’re supposed to be enjoying, simply feeling. You don’t need to think to do that.”

He sounded eminently reasonable, even faintly amused; the idea of a missish protest and consequent retreat seemed unwise.

“Have you always lived near Banbury?”

“Ah…yes.” Once he’d opened her bodice, what did he plan to do?

He shifted behind her, easing back; the realization that she wasn’t the only one affected by his play burst across her mind, stealing what few wits she’d managed to reassemble.

“I assume Carrington hailed from that area, too?”

The words sounded distant, vague, but whether that was due to the drumming in her ears, the titillating panic locking her lungs, or because he was no more interested in the subject than she was, she wasn’t sure.

A cool wash of air slipped beneath her gaping bodice; she quelled a shiver. His hands drifted down, then fastened about her waist.

“Ah…y-yes. He came from there, too.”

“How old are your brothers?”

She frowned. “Twelve, ten, and eight.” His hands had settled; she gulped in a breath. “Why are you asking all this?”

His fingers gripped, then he stepped back, turned her and stepped forward once more, locking her against the windowsill, his hips to hers, his erection rigid against the softness of her stomach.

He trapped her gaze.

She couldn’t think—not at all. Could only stare into his black eyes, and wonder if there really were embers glowing in them. The sheer maleness of him engulfed her; his gaze dropped to her lips—she felt them throb.

His lips quirked, wryly humorous. He released her waist; one hand rose to cup her jaw, angling her face upward as he bent his head. “Because I want to know all about you.”

His lips closed on hers as his other hand slid boldly beneath her bodice, and closed about her breast.

She gasped, tensed; only a fine layer of silk lay between her sensitized skin and his burning palm. Her breasts instantly felt heavy, swelling, tightening, aching anew.

Then he entered her mouth, possessive and demanding, capturing her attention, insistent and commanding; she scrambled to meet him, to remember how, to play the experienced widow she was pretending to be. The hand on her breast shifted, knowingly cupping, then his fingers toyed with the silk, shifting it over the tightly ruched peak, heightening its excruciatingly sensitive state—then he closed his fingers around the pebbled tip, tugged gently, then tightened, tightened…

She tried to break from the kiss, but he wouldn’t let her; his hand framing her face, he held her captive. Once again lavished delight and sheer sensual pleasure on her through the play of his lips and tongue, and the even more expert play of his fingers.

He captured her totally. Not just with the heat, with the sudden flare of hot desire, but with something simpler, more fundamental.

His hunger—and hers.

He didn’t try to hide his want, his wish to have, to know, to take, to explore, to experience; it was there, laid before her, stated more clearly than in words. A hunger of her own rose in reply, not mere curiosity but something more definite—a need she hadn’t known she had.

He angled his head, ravaged her mouth, and she consciously met him. Flagrantly urged him on. His fingers closed again and she shuddered, no longer trying to disguise her response. Her hands rose, of their own volition found his shoulders, then pushed on, around, back, then she speared her fingers into his black hair.

The silken touch of the heavy locks didn’t distract, but only added to the tactile experience; her greedy senses, awakened and starved, welcomed and wallowed. His hand shifted on her breast, blatantly possessive; his fingers tightened again—hers clenched in response.

He moved closer, into her, deepening the kiss—and suddenly they were somewhere else, in some place they hadn’t been before. Somewhere hotter, more fiery, where their needs escalated and their senses grew ravenous. Clamorous.