Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(41)

Because there’d been a time, not so long ago, when he thought he’d never get back to this place: A woman’s body soft and yielding against his, and the warm summer sun beating down on them both.

This was life.

Bright, brilliant life amid the ruins.

Chapter Thirteen

This was some kind of miracle.

Here they were, in this ruined folly, where so many couples before them must have kissed and embraced. She was surrounded by true romantic legacy—and for once, Izzy wasn’t left out of it.

Not anymore.

She relaxed, letting her weight rest against the mossy stones as Ransom trailed hot kisses along her neck.

He drew his hand along her body, sweeping a possessive touch over her waist and hip before settling his palm over her breast.

He paused there, as though he expected her to flinch or pull away.

She wasn’t about to do either. His touch awakened all her senses to anticipation, possibility.

Around them, birds whistled and chirped. All sorts of mosses, ferns, and ivies had sunk their green teeth into the stones, sprouting life from the smallest, most inhospitable places. Flowers poured their perfume into the air.

Izzy seemed to be blossoming, too. Her whole body felt flushed and pink. Ripe for his touch.

This was her summer, after years and years of spring.

She went on counting in a fevered, insensate whisper. “Sixteen, seventeen, eightee—”

When he kissed her again, she tilted her head and slid her tongue forward to toy with his.

He moaned. And his fingers curled around her breast, gently kneading her softness through the fabric.

As he touched her, Izzy did some touching of her own. She explored the muscled contours of his forearm, all roped strength and corded sinew. She slid her hand higher, feeling the massive biceps beneath his coat sleeve. He flexed the muscle on instinct. Or on purpose. Who could tell with this man? Either way, Izzy found it ridiculously thrilling. All that power in his body, and the way he could use it to explore and pleasure her.

A soft, surprised laugh escaped her. “I’d given up on this.”

“Given up on what?”

“This. All of this. Surprise benefactors, mysterious castles, romantic ruins, forbidden kisses.”

He kissed her neck. “What else have you given up on, Izzy Goodnight? This?” He flicked her earlobe with his tongue. “Maybe this?” He nipped with his teeth. “Make a list, and we’ll go through it line by line.”

She let her head fall to the side, offering him more of her neck to kiss. “What haven’t I given up on? Marriage, children, lasting love, manageable hair. Being truly understood by anyone.”

Oh, the poor man. He recoiled, his face ashen.

Izzy was utterly convinced. Never mind Arabian horses, African cheetahs. No creature in the world could bolt so quickly as a rake confronted with the word “marriage.” They ought to shout it out at footraces rather than using starting pistols.

Ready, steady . . . matrimony!

“I was joking,” she assured him.

“I knew that.”

“I don’t intend to ever marry. I certainly wouldn’t think you’d ever—” Gads, now she was making him sound unlovable. “Not with me.”

“Right. Exactly. And I don’t know a damned thing about ladies’ hair.” He cleared his throat. “Goodnight, this isn’t . . .”

“I know.”

“It’s only . . .”

“This. It’s only this. I know.” She put her arms around his neck. “No expectations. Just go back to touching me?”

He exhaled with relief. “That I can do.”

Yes. That he could do very well indeed.

His thumb found her nipple, and he teased it through the muslin, drawing the peak to a taut, aching nub. The sensations coursing through Izzy’s body were unlike anything she’d ever known. How was it possible, that his thumb could idly slide back and forth across that one tiny part of her, and she could feel it in the roots of her hair and the backs of her knees?

When his thumb abandoned the peak, and she wanted to weep.

But then he slid his touch to the other side, and the sweet torture began all over again. She was afraid her knees would buckle with it, so she clung tight to his neck, weaving her fingers into his hair.

He was driving all thoughts from her head, leaving her with the intellect of a pudding. She was just a quivering mound of sensation, capped by that red, ripe berry of a nipple that he rolled beneath his thumb. Again and again and again.

Yes.

Just when she thought she’d dissolve into a puddle at his boots, his hands slid to her waist. With a low, thrilling growl, he pressed her against the stone wall, pinning her there with his body.

Izzy was breathless. Trapped. This should have made her wild to get free. But she loved the feeling, bracketed by such intoxicating strength. The stones at her back had stood in place for centuries, and the man before her had survived unknown trials. She could melt with fear or bliss, and they would hold her together—this wall, this man.

He groaned, clutching her hips. A hard, heated something pressed against her middle.

Her eyes flew open. Her knowledge of lovemaking was rather like a sieve. She caught the general idea, even if detail and nuance slipped through. Still, she understood this much. That a man’s organ grew . . . emboldened . . . when he wished to make love.