“Yes. I want you to kiss me again. Like the last time. Only . . . more.”
He grinned. “More?” Reaching toward her, his hand looped in the sash of her robe, and he pulled her closer. “I want more as well. May I see more?”
She nodded, her throat so dry and parched, she could not speak. She watched as his hands worked the knot she’d made in front of the mirror. With patience and skill, he loosed the knot and parted her robe. Her body grew warm and liquid as his gaze devoured every inch of her. Slowly, he slipped the robe down her arms. The feel of the silk sliding off her shoulders was so delicious and the cool air such a contrast to his hot gaze that she closed her eyes to savor it.
When she opened them again, he patted the space on the bed beside him. “Come and sit here.”
Her heart sped up as she stared at their bed. She had slept in it for a week. It was large, far too large for only her, and it was covered with a plush velvet blue counterpane. When she had slept in the bed alone, she had no trouble imagining that it would sleep three or four people easily. But now that he sat perched on it, the bed looked tiny. Anywhere she sat on it would be too close to him to calm the pounding of her heart. And yet she wanted to be this close to him.
He lifted a hand and caressed her cheek, then ran his fingers through her loosened hair until his fingers kneaded her tense neck muscles. She began to relax, to close her eyes and lean into his ministrations, when he pulled her to him.
With more slow, tantalizing skill, he kissed her again. And again, the kiss was over far too quickly. This time when he pulled back to grasp his wineglass, she caught his hand in hers, stopping the glass’s progress.
She guided his hand and the glass to her own mouth, took a small sip, but held the liquid inside her mouth. And then she kissed him, giving him the wine when he parted her lips. He groaned quietly, and she felt the low primal sound deep in her belly. She put her hand on his neck, then in his hair, wrapping her fingers in it and pulling his mouth to hers. She kissed him. Or more accurately, she devoured him, at least that was how she felt. But she needed him at that moment. She needed much more than the stingy kisses he’d given, and he seemed to sense this and abandon all games and kissed her fully back.
At some point her hands moved from his head to his open shirt. She fumbled with the fabric, parting it further, then bending to kiss the exposed skin of his neck. His pulse beat rapidly there, and his scent was heavy. The scents she always associated with him—spring, leather saddles, and pine were there—but she smelled something else as well. Something dark and musky and undeniably him. It made her heady and drew her mouth again and again to kiss and nip and take him there, and she began to think of the scent as the smell of arousal.
She was nipping along his throat, small quick bites with her teeth, when she heard him drop his glass. And then his hands were on her, and he lifted her into his lap. He cradled her bottom before setting her down, and then she felt the hard bulge of his manhood.
She pulled away, suddenly afraid, but he held her with one hand just above her waist. He was out of breath, and for some reason that pleased her. “What do you want now, Catie?” He gasped out. “Remember, I am in your control.”
She certainly didn’t feel in control. Her head was spinning, and she could hardly get her bearings. But when she looked in his eyes, she felt everything lock into place. “Kiss me again,” she said and leaned forward, ready to assist him from her new position, but he stopped her by leaning back slightly.
“Is that all you want? Just a kiss?”
“Yes, of course—” But then the image of Clare in the pub flitted across her brain, and she glanced down at her own nightrail. “Kiss me here,” she said, lifting a hand and caressing her neck from her chin to the hollow at the base of her throat.
His hands were still about her waist, and he pulled her close so that her breasts brushed against him. And then she felt his firm, warm lips on her throat. They teased and traced and tantalized her until she let out a low moan and felt herself arch for him. His tongue darted out, and he ran it down the column of her neck, making her shiver with desire at the wet trail that cooled as his mouth moved.
Then he pulled away and looked up at her, awaiting further instructions. They were difficult for her to give. She had never given a man orders as long as she had lived. She had feared men and their directives and feared the possibility that she would ever be in the position for a man to order her into his bed.
But with Valentine it was different. Tonight he took orders, did not give them. He waited for her, his gaze patient and filled with desire for her. He wanted her, but she also knew with absolute certainty that if she were to stand and walk away from him, he would allow her to go.
“What are you thinking?” he said suddenly. “I can see something going on behind those beautiful honey eyes.”
She glanced down. “I was thinking that if I wanted to stop now, if I wanted to go, you would allow it.”
He tensed—her only indication her words displeased him—then he relaxed his hold on her waist so that he would catch her if she lost her balance, but he did not restrain her.
“If you want to stop,” he said, tilting his head so that he met her gaze, “that is your choice. You are in control. I mean that.”
She nodded, seeing the truth in his face. “What are you thinking?” she asked, her heart speeding up when the words left her mouth.
He raised a brow. “Provocative question, Lady Valentine. Are you sure you want to know?” His hands tightened on her waist again, caressing her through the nightgown until they molded to her hips and adjusted her so that she was pressing directly against his erection.
“Yes,” she said on a breathless sigh. “I want to know.”
“I am thinking”—he leaned into her and kissed her neck again—“that you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She shivered as his lips trailed over her skin, warming it as he traced the curve of her jaw. “That’s not true. There are many women—”
“To me, you are the most beautiful.” His teeth nipped her earlobe and she let out a small moan. “Do you want to know what else I am thinking?”
“Tell me,” she ordered, wiggling just a bit from the tickle of his breath in her ear.
“I am thinking how much I love your scent. You smell like peaches. And I wonder if you taste of them, too. If the skin of your breasts and your stomach”—he touched her lightly in the places he spoke of as he talked—“and your thighs taste as sweet and succulent.”
She swayed as his hands grazed her thighs and then rested on her hips again, holding her up. “What else are you thinking?” she whispered, eager for more of his words, his seduction.
