First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(71)

But he wasn’t sure he could make this the best morning of her life. He wasn’t even sure he could make it pleasant, or fun, or without pain.

Although come to think of it, if this wasn’t good for Georgie, it wasn’t going to end up being the best morning of Nicholas’s life after all.

If ever there was a time to excel at one’s studies, this was it.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He had been staring at her for so long, he realized. He’d made her uneasy.

“I want to know you,” he said, his voice soft with desire. “I want to know every inch of you.”

She blushed at that, the faint pink of emotion shimmering across her face and neck.

He kissed her brow, then her temple, then the tiny indentation near her ear. “You’re perfect,” he whispered.

“Nobody’s perfect,” she said. But her voice was shaky, as if the reply was automatic, an ingrained attempt to bring levity to a moment that was disquieting in its intensity.

“Perfect for me,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that.”

He smiled down at her. “Why do you keep saying such silly things?”

Her eyes widened.

“You”—he kissed her nose—“are”—and now her mouth—“perfect”—her mouth again, but this time with a growl—“for me.”

He gazed down at her again, pleased with his handiwork. She blinked several times in rapid succession, and he could not help but feel delight that he’d managed to so thoroughly discombobulate her. It was hard to tell if her expression was one of surprise or desire—maybe a combination of the two or maybe something else altogether—but her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, and he wanted to drown in them both.

How could he have lived his entire life knowing her and not knowing he needed this?

Never had he seen anything as beautiful as Georgie’s skin, pale and luminous in the early morning sunlight.

Her nightgown had not been designed to entice; it was a basic, utilitarian thing, much like his own, but as he slid the hem up her slender legs, inch by tantalizing inch, he was grateful for it. At some point in the rushed wedding plans, he’d heard her mother bemoan the lack of a proper trousseau. He wanted to see Georgie in French silk and Belgian lace, but not yet. He didn’t think he could take it.

“You have to tell me what you like,” he said.

She nodded, her eyes shy.

He touched her thigh, his large hand skimming over the front before he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you like that?”

“Yes.”

His thumb slid from position, stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh, ever careful not to stray too high.

She wasn’t ready for that yet. And maybe he wasn’t, either. If he touched her there, felt the heat of her, he might explode.

He had to make this last. He was as hard as he’d ever been in his life, and despite this being new, he felt the primal instinct of man rising within, hard and fast. He wanted to claim her.

He wanted to mark her as his.

The need was so fierce and intense he barely recognized himself.

When he spoke again his voice was shaky. “What else do you like?”

She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he was even asking. “Everything,” she whispered. “I’ve liked everything you’ve done.”

“Everything?” he said in a low growl. It was almost embarrassing how much he liked hearing that.

She nodded shyly. “I really like it when—”

“What?” he asked urgently. He had to know.

“When you kissed me,” she whispered, bringing her fingers to skin just below her collarbone. “Here.”

He sucked in his breath. Here was where the swell of her breast began. Here was a short journey to the pink tip he was aching to discover.

Here was an excellent place to begin a journey.

He replaced her fingers with his mouth, his tongue drawing lazy, sensual circles on her skin. She arched toward him, moaning with pleasure, and the sound stoked the fire that was already raging inside him.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured. Had her skin ever been touched by the sun? He wanted to explore her, every inch of her. He wanted a map of her body, and he wanted it drawn on his own.

Dear God, where were these thoughts coming from? He was a scientist, not a poet. And yet when he kissed her—her lips, her cheek, her neck—he could swear the world broke out into song.

Her nightgown tied at the neck with a simple bow, and he gave it a little tug, watching as the loop of the bow grew smaller and smaller until it eventually popped free. He didn’t think the gown was meant to be lowered over her body, but the loosened neckline gave him access to a wider expanse of her skin. He kissed one of those newly revealed spots, and then another.

And then another, because he couldn’t seem to resist a single inch of her.

Her nightgown couldn’t be lowered any further, so he moved his lips over the muslin, skimming along her plump breast until he found the peak.

She gasped.

He took it in his mouth, and she gasped again, but this time it was louder, colored by a moan of pleasure.

“Do you like that?” he asked, thinking he might very well die if she said no.

“Yes.”

He took her other breast in his hand, playing with her nipple through the fabric of her nightgown. She writhed beneath him, breathless in her desire.