Unclaimed (Turner #2)(47)
He didn’t demand that she divulge it. He didn’t demand anything of her, and that made her feel wrong and dirty—because she came to him for comfort, and he gave it without asking questions. It recalled her nausea of that afternoon once again. Her hands shook anew.
If she seduced the one good man she’d met, she’d surely earn her place in hell. But if there was a hell, she’d already earned her place in it. That’s what it meant to be a fallen woman. She’d already lost all hope of heaven.
All hope except the scent of Sir Mark, his arm wrapped around her now. If there was any such thing as salvation, surely it felt like the gentle kiss he laid on her throat. The feel of his nose, brushing against the line of her jaw. The light calluses on his hands, sliding across her shoulder.
It didn’t feel like damnation when her fingers found his chin, when she lifted his head so that his eyes met hers. His mouth touched hers, sweet and gentle; her hands dropped to curl about his elbows, as if she could cradle the comfort he offered her. His kiss seemed some blasphemous prayer whispered against her skin. His lips caught at hers. His arms encircled her, as if she were some fragile, precious thing.
And, oh, it felt good. He held her without restraining her—as if his every caress was a supplication. As if every touch of his lips was a question, one she could answer as she willed, and not a demand.
There was only one answer. Yes. Yes with her tongue; yes with the heat of her breath; yes with her hands digging into his shoulders.
And then his fingers were brushing up her ribs, setting her afire. His mouth slid down to her chin, her neck, leaving a cascade of warmth in his wake. His palm cupped her breast, his fingers exploring it. His touch was neither tentative nor practiced—just slow, excruciatingly slow, as if he were unearthing some kind of archaeological treasure, and he feared it would break.
“Jessica,” he murmured against her skin.
He’d found the nub of her nipple. She gasped as he circled it with his thumb. The pleasure was like drink—intoxicating, stealing away memories she wished forgotten.
Her hands slipped down his chest to the wool of his waistcoat. Copper buttons twisted in her grip until she revealed the starched linen of his shirt, warmed to his touch. She tugged, and the tails came loose. She reached beneath the fabric.
His skin was hot. His breath hissed in as her palms skimmed up the wall of his abdomen. His muscle tensed into hard curves under her touch, corded and inflexible. Any other man would have flipped her onto her back by now. His lips found the side of her neck. He kissed her slowly.
“You know,” he whispered to her, “this afternoon, I had vowed never to talk with you again.”
“Why ever did you change your mind?”
He shrugged. “You were waiting on my doorstep. And I believe my first coherent thought upon seeing you was—so much for that promise, then. The resolution would not have lasted past seeing you. You may be utterly wrong for me, but I don’t believe I can give you up.”
“That’s precisely how I feel. You’re the worst man on earth for you to be.”
“Am I so bad, then?”
“So good.” She swallowed. “Sir Mark—the village gossips were too kind. I have been intimate with men who are not my husband.” She stopped, forced herself to go on. “More than one.”
“Have you, then?” He didn’t move from her.
“My morals are not what they should be. Surely you must know that by now.”
“If you were truly bereft of morals, surely you would feel no compunction about lying to me. Is there anything else truly dire I need to know about you?”
“Oh, Sir Mark. I don’t even know where to begin with my direness. At this point, I’ve made so many mistakes I’m riddled with impossibility.” She shrugged. “And it’s not just my…my lack of chastity.”
“I suppose I should care about that.”
“You don’t?”
The fire cast his face into unforgiving shadow—an agony of expression that she could not dissipate. “Oh, no.” His voice rumbled. “All I can think—the only thought that enters my mind—is…” His body canted toward her, and she could not help but sway toward him. Until her bodice brushed his chest, until her fingers slid from his shoulder to his wrist, and the air in her lungs turned to fire.
“All you can think,” she breathed.
“All I can think,” he whispered, “is that you would want to be faithful to me.”
His hand slipped under the neckline of her gown and drew it down to expose her shoulder. A swelling ache went through her. It should not have made her gasp aloud, that innocent touch—nothing but his fingers against her collarbone, his skin against hers. But it was his fingertips that dragged across her shoulder, his caress that sent sparks shooting down her arm. And the intent in his eyes—serious and deliberate—transformed that touch beyond all possible innocence.
“If you were any other man,” she said, “I should think you were trying to have your way with me.”
“If I were any other man,” he said, “you wouldn’t let me do it. But I’m me. And my way doesn’t involve any having. I am making you a promise, not a proposition.”
Men always made promises at times like this, and Jessica had long learned to discount them. But Mark didn’t spell out the content of his promise. His lips brushed hers once more—gentle, not demanding. He didn’t fit into her understanding of the world.