“I am thinking how much I want you. How I want to lay you down beneath me and drive into you until you are writhing from pleasure.”
She had a brief flash of her father’s angry face and remembered her mother’s screams. Fear sparked inside her, and she drew back, but Valentine caught her. “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Something you said reminded me—” Tears pricked her eyes, and he put a finger over her lips.
“Shh. Don’t think of that tonight. Let me change the look in your haunted eyes. Let me show you that my touch can pleasure you. Will you let me prove to you that I would not harm you for anything?”
“Show me,” she said. “I’m so tired of being afraid.” He kissed her again, a soothing kiss full of sweetness and care, and then he drew back and buried his face in her hair. With trembling fingers, she lifted her hands and let them find their own way to the knotted strings of her nightgown. As he pulled back, she loosened the strings and let the gown fall down her arms and about her waist.
He stared at her, then met her gaze.
“Kiss me here,” she said, letting a finger trail over one erect nipple. “And kiss me here.” Her hand went to the other breast, and then she cupped both and offered herself to him.
He did not pause, and she felt his hot breath on her flesh as he loved her with her mouth, sucking and licking and laving her until she was arched back and breathing heavily. The more he touched her, the more she wanted his touch. She needed him, the ache in her heart and between her legs growing to almost unbearable heights. She ground against him, ignoring her wanton behavior, only seeking to assuage the twinge between her thighs.
And then she was beneath him. His weight was more of a comfort than a prison, and he was stripping off her nightgown and kissing her everywhere, loving her flesh with his hands and his mouth and his eyes.
He sat back and looked at her, then lifted his own shirt over his head, revealing his muscled chest. He was a politician but no stranger to hard work and exercise, and when she ran her hands over his abdomen, she admired the hard ridges of his muscles. He had a light sprinkling of golden-brown hair on his chest, which tapered to a line below his belly button and disappeared beneath his trousers. Catherine followed the line of that hair down with one fingertip, but Quint stopped her before she could touch the part of him that made her truly curious.
“Let’s take this slow,” he said, his voice almost a groan. “Let me love you first. If you’re ready, there’s less chance I’ll give you any pain.”
She nodded, and he began to slip off the bed. “Where are you going?” she asked, propping herself on her elbows. She was embarrassed by her nakedness at first, but the longer he looked at her, the less self-conscious she felt. There was only desire in his eyes, only pleasure at what he saw, and Catherine reveled in it. She wanted him to look at her, wanted him to desire her.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But I need you to come closer.” Then grasping her about the hips, he pulled her to the edge of the bed and parted her knees, standing between them.
She gasped, feeling vulnerable and excited at her new position. He leaned over her, planting his hands at her sides. “Do you remember that night in the village pub?”
She nodded. The memory was all too clear to her. She wanted Quint to make her feel that way again.
“Do you remember what that young man was doing to that girl?”
“Clare? Yes,” she whispered.
“I want to do that to you. But I must have your permission.”
She nodded, her legs feeling numb and tingly at the thought of his mouth between them.
“So I have your permission to part your legs like this?” He nudged her knees apart until she was open to him. He kept his gaze on her face until she gave her consent, and then he looked down, wetting his lips at the sight of her.
Catherine’s heart pounded so hard she feared it would burst, and the burst of heat between her legs at the intensity of his stare made her cry out. She emitted a low moan as he reached toward her. “Touch me,” she pleaded, watching his hand move far too slowly. “Touch me there.”
His fingers brushed against her lightly, and she threw back her head and moaned again. This was what she had wanted. This was the feeling that had given her dreams, that wakened her sweaty and full of need.
“Catie,” he murmured, fingers still caressing her. “I want more. With your permission, I’m going to get on my knees.”
She made a sound that was incomprehensible even to her, but she felt him lower himself.
“And now I’m going to kiss you. Here.” His fingers pressed her sensitive flesh again, and then they withdrew. “May I kiss you here?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”
At first, she felt nothing but the warmth of his body between her legs, the rasp of his stubble on her inner thigh, and the gentle pressure of his mouth against the juncture between her legs. And then she felt his tongue—at least she thought it was his tongue.
His touch was light and delicious, darting against her sensitive skin. The contrast between the whisper of his mouth and the intense, rapturous sensation overwhelmed her.
She couldn’t think at all. There was nothing but sensation. Nothing but white heat and pulsing pleasure. Nothing but the zing of blood in her veins and the spiral of pleasure spinning through her body until she rose with it, lifting herself up and screaming her release.
Chapter Eighteen
