Unveiled (Turner #1)(44)
“When you do that, I can see.” He made a gesture in the direction of her cle**age. “At least, I can see more.”
She drew a deep breath. Her hand raised one inch, as if to block his view, but then she let her arm fall to her thigh. And then—oh, God—she leaned another inch towards him. She crooked one finger at him, and he found himself standing, drifting towards her. She licked her lips, and then she whispered, “Come here and kiss me.”
He was transfixed: by the lamplit swell of her br**sts, barely visible above her neckline, by the damnably enticing rose of her lips, by the clarity of her eyes, untouched by her usual grief. She smiled at him—an expression both shy and brazen, a smile as old as woman herself.
“You should always be like this,” he said roughly.
“Forward?”
“Sure of yourself. Powerful. Unshadowed.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure of myself, Ash. I’m just…just…”
“You’re sure of me.”
Her head jerked up. She looked at him in surprise, and then, slowly, she nodded. “Yes. Because you’ll understand the spirit in which this is offered. You’ll know what it means to me.”
“And what will it mean?” His breath caught, hurting him. “What will I mean to you?”
She looked into his eyes. “Oh, you told me that the first day I met you. Do you not recall what this is about? ‘A little defiance,’ you said. That’s what I want from you. A little defiance. I want to know what it should be like. What I should have had, when I lost…lost it all.”
Defiance. He swallowed. It wasn’t enough for him—not anymore. He wanted to be more than her defiance. He wanted to be her strength, her amusement. He wanted to be her lover. He wanted to be her every wicked desire and her safe haven, all at once.
But if what she wanted at the moment was defiance… Well, he could give her that, too. Until she was ready for everything else.
He reached out and took her hands in his, pulling her to her feet. Her fingers trembled in his. He didn’t want to know what memories plagued her. He just wanted her to forget them. She reached up on her toes and leaned into him, her br**sts brushing against his chest, her fingers intertwining with his.
He couldn’t help himself.
He kissed her. Hard, too; his mouth met hers with open lips, taking her with a ravenous intensity. He’d held back from her for too long, had held back this kiss, until it broke over him with all the ferocity of a summer storm. He was the lightning striking fertile ground, the hard rain driving into a field. And if he was a bolt of energy, swift and sure, she was the thunder, a low, powerful rumble that passed through him and stood his hairs on end.
Her lips were the welcoming fields, parched for his rain. She fit him, her body molding to his, her lips latching on to his. Her hands ran up his arms to his shoulders; he enfolded her in his embrace. He was hot and rigid for her, had been ever since she’d spoken about ankles. Her body cradled his erection, even through all the layers of their clothing. He could feel the rub of the fabric, harsh friction against his member.
He kissed her and with his fingers he sketched what he wanted from her. He traced her cheeks, and willed the sadness in her eyes to be swept away in the tumultuous aftermath of passion. His hand painted a line down her spine, inch by inch, and spoke of his desire to have her naked in his arms. He wanted her, needed her, with a sheer animal intensity that would not be gainsaid.
It was that sheer want that led his hand to her breast, that unthinking desire that made him touch her there. It was lust, pure and simple, that guided his hand to that curve. But her response—that sweet arch of her spine—meant more to him than mere lust. It was desire, yes. But it was also a recognition, twanging through him, a poignant acknowledgement that with her, he could be vulnerable.
He could barely feel the shape of her beneath her corset, but he could imagine the peak of her nipple. He could feel her response as he circled that bud with his fingers, could feel the desire in her kiss increase in intensity. She leaned against his hand. It was a form of trust.
He’d already trusted her with far more than his bodily response. Somehow, he guided her back onto the sofa. Somehow, he straddled her, loosened the sash of her dress, and then, one by one, undid the little buttons of her bodice. It was rough work, his hands jostling with every breath she took. Somehow, he finished—and thanked the Lord for a front-lacing demi-corset, finer than he’d imagined a nurse would wear. The ivory flowers underneath her dress seemed like a feminine little secret, one known by just the two of them. He unlaced this to reveal a thin shift, beneath which he could make out the dusky pink tips of her ni**les—a darker rose than her lips, but begging for his kiss just the same.
He gave it, taking that peak in his mouth, while his hands slid down to her waist.
She moaned and rolled beneath him, her hips cradling his frame, his erection pressing into her thigh. He could have tasted her forever, could have let the feel of her seep into him. She came alive beneath him, pressing up. And he needed more. He lifted his lips from the curve of her breast to kiss her lips again. It was maddening, utterly maddening, to have her so close and yet so far from him. He pulled away from her—only for a moment, only long enough to set his hands on her ankles. And then he traced the perfection of her skin up, up, up the curve of her calves, to her knees.
Her skirt slid up, and still she didn’t pull away from him. She hadn’t flinched. Instead, she threw her head back and parted her thighs at his invasion. Her legs— God, the feel of them, warm and round and long and slim beneath his palms. He pushed a mess of petticoats out of the way.