“You—you shouldn’t say such things,” she replied, but she didn’t mean it. Not at all. She didn’t want him to stop. Ever. His hand brushed against the underside of one breast, and Josie didn’t want him to stop that either. But though this was what Josie had wanted all along, she found now that it was happening, she was half scared out of her mind. Her legs had turned to jelly, and she could barely stop them from wobbling.
“They are the perfect size.” His hand closed around her breast, kneading the sensitive flesh until her nipple puckered and hardened. His hand kneaded again, and this time she gasped at the heat that shot through her. “The perfect size for me.”
And when she looked down, she saw that he was right. Her breast fit neatly into his hand, filling it but not spilling over. He flicked at her hard nipple, and she moaned. “Westman, I want you,” she murmured, unable to stop herself. “Please.”
She felt the uncertainty in him. She felt the way he tensed and the rigidity in his hand on her. And then she felt him give in. His body seemed to relax, to curve to hers, until she was a part of him. He held her, supported her, lifted her up.
And then his hand moved, lowering the bodice of her gown, lowering the top of her stays, and freeing her breasts to his touch. Josie sucked in a breath. She had allowed men to touch her breasts before, but she had never allowed it to go this far. She had never stood as she stood now, naked before a man’s eyes. She could feel his gaze over her shoulder, feel him looking at her. And then she glanced straight ahead, and she was looking at him looking at her.
She had forgotten the dusty cheval mirror, clouded with age, but not so old that she could not see Westman and herself reflected in it.
Lord, the image was truly wanton. She stared at her breasts, exposed in the glass. They were round and pale, and the nipples were dusky rose. She stared at Westman’s hand, resting just below her left breast. His skin was darker than hers, his arm holding her where he wanted. She loved the power in his posture. She loved the reckless woman she was in his arms.
And when his gaze met hers in the mirror, she loved the way he looked at her. It was almost a welcome home. She could see the longing in his eyes— the same longing she felt.
His hand moved, and he cupped her breast, pushing it up as though he were testing its weight. And then his free hand snaked about her waist, and he cupped her other breast, so that both his hands were on her. The pleasure was almost more than she could take. The pleasure of his touch on her breasts and the promise of his touch in other places. The place between her legs began to ache, and she shifted to ease the need there.
But just when she had succeeded, his fingers took her nipples between them, and he pulled the already tight buds tighter. Josie took a fragmented breath. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t stop watching the picture in the mirror. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the way Westman was looking at her.
He really did want her.
And then he released one breast, and Josie blinked from the loss of his touch. But no sooner did she open her mouth to protest, than his hand began to glide lower, and her every muscle tightened with anticipation.
“Oh, yes. Touch me,” she moaned.
His lips were beside her ear. “Where do you want me to touch you, Miss Hale? Here?” He pressed against her belly, and she shook her head.
Lord, she was so wanton in his arms, so shamefully wanton, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She didn’t want to stop. “Lower,” she whispered. “Touch me lower.”
He glided lower, touching her pelvis. “Here, Miss Hale?”
She looked at him in the mirror, looked at his hand hovering just above the juncture of her legs.
“You know what I want,” she said, her voice low and husky.
“Show me,” he said against her neck, and she did. She took his hand, skated it over her pelvis, and buried it deep between her legs. She didn’t need to tell him what to do then. He worked her through her skirts, stroking her, teasing her, making her moan.
And then he too moaned. She heard his breathing come faster and harder, and he spun her around, his hand never leaving off pleasuring her. “I have to touch you,” he whispered. “I have to have you in my mouth.”
Josie was almost afraid to know what that meant, but then he lowered his lips to her, took one long, hard nipple in his mouth and sucked.
“Oh, God,” Josie said on a gasp. “Oh, yes.”
He buried his head between her breasts and then after he’d kissed and touched and tasted to his satisfaction, he peered up at her. “See how little I want you? I’ve thought of nothing but this since you climbed from your window.”
She frowned. Maybe it was the incessant, tantalizing movement of his hand, but she was confused. “Climbed down from my window?”
“I could see up your skirts,” he admitted, his look unapologetic.
She almost laughed. “You’re a bad man.”
“Let me show you how bad.”
And with one movement he flicked her skirts up and his hand touched bare flesh. Josie almost screamed. “Oh, God. Yes!”
His hand played her flesh, stroking and teasing until she was slick and pulsing with heat. And then, when she knew she could no longer stand, he lowered her to a bed of straw and knelt between her legs, spreading her knees. Josie didn’t mind. She wanted him to look. She wanted him to see how wet she was, and how much she wanted him.
She opened her legs wider, loving the way his gaze on her felt. She was so hot, so coiled up, so ready to explode.
