A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(46)

In a slow, sure claiming, he fitted his palm over her breast. She bit back a gasp.

Bram struggled to contain his own groan of pleasure. The soft, round swell fit his hand so perfectly, warming under his touch. As he held her, her nipple tightened to a knot, pressing against the center of his palm. Just a small, concentrated dot of sensation, but unspeakably arousing. Her body was responding to his, calling to his. His c**k answered, stiffening to a painful degree.

He bent his head and pressed his lips to her bared throat, kneading the taut globe of her breast as he kissed a slow trail downward. She did taste of salt, and of sweet femininity. He licked her, sliding his tongue in a lazy, serpentine path over her collarbone. Then dipping down, to trace the border of her décolletage. There, her close-fitted bodice thwarted him. He slipped a single finger between fabric and skin, forcing the neckline to give, just a little. He needed to touch her there, feel that tight bead of her nipple press against the pad of his fingertip.

Working in tiny arcs, he skimmed his touch lower, exploring the warm satin of her skin. Learning the unique geography of the plump, delectable globe. His thumb finally grazed the textured edge of her areola, and triumph surged through him. He felt like a conquistador discovering a new territory. An enticing round island of promise, bordered by rippling dunes and capped with an upward-thrusting peak. He climbed it in increments, panting for breath. God, just a little further . . .

There.

She gave a startled, breathy cry, and her whole body bowed against his. Her passionate response nearly undid him. His thoughts unraveled, leaving him with just one thread of concentration.

More.

That was all he could think, all he could understand. More. He needed more of her. How could he stroke more, touch more, kiss more? He still had one of her arms pinned overhead. If he lowered it to her side, he reasoned, her neckline would have more give. He would make it yield to him, so he could take that delicious, straining peak into his mouth. But when he rose up a bit, meaning to draw her arm down to her side . . .

“Jesus.”

He froze, staring. Struggling to make sense of what he beheld. From wrist to elbow, her delicate skin was a crosshatch of scars.

With a sharp mental tug, he reined in the arousal charging through his body. So here was the reason she always wore those enticing, buttoned gloves. She was hiding something, too.

Something much more serious than a nettle in her paw.

“Susanna fair,” he said, skimming a touch over her marked skin. “What happened here?”

Susanna winced at his touch. Inside, she crumpled. She ought to have known she couldn’t hide them forever. That she would never get this close to a man without those dratted scars ruining everything, one way or another.

“How old are these?” he asked, tracing a thin, healed line with his fingertip.

“Quite old,” she said dismissively. “They’re nothing. From gardening.”

“Gardening? Did you pick a death match with a rosebush?”

“No.” She arched her back, rubbing her br**sts against his chest. His touch had felt so good. So right. “Couldn’t we just go back to where we left off?”

Apparently not.

As she wriggled beneath him, he used his weight and strength to keep her pinned. Not out of conquest, it seemed, but out of concern. “What happened? Tell me the truth.”

“I . . .” She hesitated. Then she took a deep breath and decided to just be honest. He could make of the truth what he would. “They’re from bloodletting.”

“So many?” He cursed softly, running his fingertips over the ladder of scarred skin. “I thought you said you weren’t ill as a child.”

“I wasn’t ill. That didn’t stop the surgeons from trying to cure me.”

“Tell me,” he said.

Her gaze slanted to the corner. A wild pulse pounded in her ears, like a warning.

“You’ve seen my scars,” he reminded her, easing aside to give her space. “I’ve told you everything.”

“It was the year after my mother died.” Her own voice sounded flat, remote. “Papa thought I needed feminine influence—someone to see that I grew into a young lady. So he sent me to Norfolk, to stay with relations.”

“And you took ill there?”

“Only with homesickness. But my cousins didn’t know what to do with me. They saw it their duty to make me ready for society, but they lamented that I would never fit in. I was tall and freckled, and my hair gave them the vapors. Not to mention, my behavior left much to be desired. I was . . . difficult.”

“Of course you were.”

She felt a stab of hurt at the flip comment. It must have been evident, for he quickly qualified his remark.

“I only mean,” he said, “that was perfectly natural. You were sent to live with virtual strangers, and your mother had just died.”

She nodded. “They understood that, at first. But when weeks went by and my comportment failed to improve . . . they thought something more must be wrong. That was when they called in the doctors.”

“Who bled you.”

“To begin with. They prescribed a variety of treatments, over time. I didn’t respond as they hoped, you see. I do have an obstinate streak.”

“I believe I’ve noticed that.” He smiled a little. The warmth in his eyes gave her strength to continue.