Unclaimed (Turner #2)(71)

“Is there a trick to the petticoats?” He found the first button that held the top layer in place.

“Mark, what are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.” He peeled away one layer of muslin and started in on the next. “I’m undressing you.” The second petticoat joined the first on the floor. “I feel like I’m taking apart a watch,” he said. “It’s easy enough to disconnect the parts, but I’m fairly certain I couldn’t reconstruct the whole without expert help.”

“Truly, Mark, you have to stop.” She was beginning to shake.

Her last petticoat slid to the floor, and she stood in her shift.

“Is that what you want?”

She turned in his arms. His eyes slid down her form—uncluttered now by skirts and excess fabric.

All her scampering vulnerabilities froze in the heat of his gaze. She felt like a rabbit staring up at a hawk. But this hawk didn’t pounce. Instead, he simply leaned in and kissed her. It was a sweet kiss—just his lips against hers, his hand on her shoulder. Her body melted against his. She carried her fear inside that rising tide of pleasure, like shattered glass waiting to slice her.

As he kissed her, his hands moved. He traced her form as if he wanted to commit it to memory. The hairs on her arm stood up, brought to attention by that gentle touch.

“If we go much further, I’m going to lose my head,” she confessed.

He pushed back and looked her in the eyes. “Lose it,” he advised, and then he leaned down and fastened his lips to her breast. Heat washed over her. Her protests, weak and halfhearted as they’d been, disappeared, swallowed in the swelling need of her body.

“You like that.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve thought about doing that for ages. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.”

Jessica nodded, not trusting her voice. And then he leaned down and did it again—his tongue swirling around her nipple, gentle and yet firm. His breath was growing ragged—she could feel it washing against her skin. The sensation rippled out from that point, powerful and intensely pleasurable. She could feel her own want grow.

Any other man, having paid this bare attention to her pleasure, would have been eager to sate his own desire. But Mark touched her as if every stroke of his tongue was new, as if she were a sweet to savor, a prize to treasure, as if her enjoyment were vital for more than just easing his way inside. Her skin burned to feel his body pressed full-length against her.

“Hurry,” she said.

He raised his head and gave her a knowing, wicked smile—one that made her feel as if he were drawing on a wealth of experience. “I’ve waited twenty-eight years for this. I don’t suppose another few hours will change anything.”

It was unlikely that he would have come here. It was improbable that he would think well of her after everything he’d learned. But her mouth dried at that bald statement. There was no mistaking his intent. He wanted her, and that was impossible.

His hand drifted down her ribs, slowly, as if he were counting them out. He found the edge of her shift and pulled it up, the fabric sliding over her sensitive flesh.

“A few hours?” Jessica said, hearing her voice rise. “You are optimistic.”

His lip quirked up at that. But he kissed his way down her body, to her navel.

“It is the most astonishing thing,” he whispered against her skin. “To touch you, to feel you tremble. To know that I’m the cause of it.” His thumbs made circles against her hips. And then he reached out tentatively and touched her thighs. Slid his hands up, parting her knees, his fingers brushing against the slick folds of her sex once more. “It is so much better than I’d imagined.”

She reached out and ran her own hands through his hair. “Just wait until I start to touch you.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” he breathed. And then he met her eyes. “Here?” he asked. She felt his thumb brush her between her legs. “Or here?”

“There.”

More sure now, the pressure he exerted; more certain, the light in his eyes as he looked at her. “And what about here?”

Sparks cascaded through her. “Yes—that.”

This time, he did not just part her sex. His finger slid inside her, and she shivered, her inner muscles tightening around him.

“And this?”

“Too much—oh, Mark, and not enough.”

He pushed back, stood up. He undid his waistcoat quickly, unwound his cravat from his neck. He didn’t rush, not even when he pulled the lawn of his shirt over his head. His chest was pale and smooth, furred over with light golden hairs that caught the candlelight.

Jessica reached up and caught his upper arms, glorying in the curve of that muscle, so strong, and yet trembling under her touch. She ran her hands along his chest, found the smooth circle of his nipple. His breathing caught, and he canted over her.

“Jessica. Please. Darling. Do that again.”

She did.

Men sometimes talked as if curves were something that only a woman possessed. But his body was a construction of subtler curves: the gentle swell of his forearm, racing down to the blunt tips of his fingers. The ripple of his abdomen. That arc where torso met pelvis. His body seemed the pinnacle of masculine artistry.

He reached for the fall of his trousers. Her breath scalded her lungs. She reached out and set her hand over his. “What are you doing?”