The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(22)
This man who wanted her.
Who said she was precious.
Who made her feel treasured—and safe.
Fear’s hold on her loosened. Guided by instinct, she kissed him with all the passion awakening inside her. Eagerness and inexperience made her a bit clumsy, but it didn’t matter because he was in control. Masterfully so. No one had ever kissed her with such finesse before. With such care. His mouth courted hers with discipline and skill, and longing sizzled through her.
When he tossed aside her bonnet and crowded into the lee of her thighs, she shivered with primal delight. It felt right; everything about him did. His dark male taste, his spicy scent, his virile strength. Her hands clutched his hard shoulders, her knees bracketing his hips, and still she was desperate to get closer. When his mouth left hers, she made a sound of protest. His soft laugh heated her ear… then he drew the lobe into his mouth. Shock faded to bliss as he suckled the sensitive flesh. His tongue flicked back and forth, the caress hardening the tips of her breasts, causing a flutter between her thighs.
Desire made her dizzy. She could barely breathe.
And she wanted more.
As if he knew what she was feeling, his lips coasted over her jaw and neck, pleasure ruffling up her spine. His hand slid beneath her pelisse. She was wearing countless layers, but somehow he found where she was aching, his strong touch titillating the taut peaks of her breasts, rubbing them against the cage of stiffened fabric.
It was exquisite. Torturous.
Tension twisted her insides. Panting, squirming against the table, she didn’t know how to get relief. But somehow she trusted that he did.
“Help me,” she whispered. “Please.”
~~~
The bright, desperate need in her eyes was his undoing. Hell, she needed to come—badly. And release was something he could so easily give her.
He kissed her, licking deeply into her sweetness. At the same time, he dragged up her skirts and petticoats, his hand clamping on her drawer-clad thigh. Beneath the fine linen, her sleek muscles trembled, and he continued upward, finding the slit in the cloth.
She tensed, her knees pressing against his hips.
“Don’t hide, sweeting,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful.”
“I oughtn’t—”
“Let me take care of you. I’ll give you what you need. Trust me, Primrose.”
Her golden lashes fanned upward. Gold swirled with green… and her legs slackened.
Pleasure shuddered through him at her trusting acquiescence… and that was before his finger passed through the slit. Christ Almighty. Her pussy was soft, wet, unbelievably lush; behind the placket of his trousers, his cock shot up as if injected with steel.
He reminded himself that this wasn’t about his pleasure; it was about hers. He had a sudden flash of insight: with Primrose, the two could be one and the same. Sex could be an act of sharing rather than a mere exchange. Arousal pumped his blood, his erection jerking.
Reverently, he slid his finger up her plump crease, and she gasped when he found her pearl, rubbing it, painting it with her own dew. Watching her expressive face, he varied pace and pressure and stroke to maximize her pleasure. He’d never seen anything more beautiful than her sex-flushed cheeks, her bottom lip catching beneath her teeth as she approached her finish.
It didn’t take long: she’d been on the edge from the start. When she went over, he claimed her mouth. Her cries reverberated through him, shaking his foundations.
~~~
As Rosie slowly floated down to earth, several facts entered her awareness. One, she’d just experienced earth-shattering pleasure—a kind that she’d never even known existed. Second, the gentleman responsible for her state was standing between her thighs, his face buried in her neck, his heavy breaths heating her ear. Third, she was disheveled: a fallen curl dangled in her eye, and she was wet between her thighs.
Surprisingly, she couldn’t rouse herself enough to care. Embarrassment and shame—her constant companions—were conspicuously absent. In their place was a languor she’d never known before, a sense of rightness that made no sense… but there it was.
Trust me, Primrose.
Some deep instinct had told her that she could. And so she had. He might not be titled or rich or any of the things she’d been looking for in a husband—and she didn’t care. For the first time, she wanted something more. Something that she’d felt in the presence of this man from their first meeting. Something so primal and absolute that she couldn’t help but believe in it—and herself.
So this is what all the fuss is about. What Polly, Mama were trying to tell me…
Wonderingly, she touched his hair; the bronze waves slid through her fingers like rough silk. He lifted his head, and, staring into his coffee brown eyes, that gloriously handsome face, she was mesmerized by that pull of recognition. As if she were a dreamer trying to get back to the world she’d left behind.
“Tell me your name,” she whispered. “I must know.”
He hesitated. “Andrew.”
Andrew…. Andrew… The name danced like joy through her. Why?
“How do you know me? Because you do,” she said.
“Primrose, I…” He tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, her heart flip-flopping at the tender gesture. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
His words sent a quiver of anxiety through her.