Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(37)

A breath of amusement fanned her cheek. “Then you should probably aim your gaze at least two and a half feet higher than usual.” Gently he adjusted the angle of her chin. “Put your arms around me.”

Inexplicably, the quiet command sent ripples of interest and excitement through her. Was she actually going to let him . . . ?

Yes, some reckless inner voice insisted. Yes, don’t stop him, don’t think at all, just let it happen.

The dreamlike stillness was disturbed only by the fitful pattern of her breathing. Her hands went to his sides and slid around to the powerful surface of his back. He cupped the back of her head securely, and in the next moment his mouth caught at hers, a light pressure that kept nudging and settling, as if he were trying to find the exact fit between them. Uncertain how to respond, she stood there with her face uplifted while his fingertips stroked her throat and jaw as tenderly as sunlight moving over her skin. She wouldn’t have thought a man of his size could handle her with such gentleness. He deepened the pressure, urging her lips apart beneath his, and she felt the tip of his tongue enter her. The teasing lick felt so peculiar and sinuous, she stiffened and jerked back in surprise.

West kept her against him, his shaven masculine bristle rasping her soft skin. His cheek tautened as if he were smiling. Realizing her reaction had amused him, she frowned, but before she could say a word, his mouth had come to hers again. He explored her slowly, expertly, the intimacy shocking and yet . . . not unpleasant. Not at all. As the sweet, restless searching continued, delight resonated through her in thrills, like the parts of a harp that vibrated when certain notes were played. Tentatively she responded, her tongue darting shyly to meet his.

As she reached around his neck for support, she encountered the edge of his hair where it curled slightly against his nape. The dark locks were cool and lustrous as they slid through her languid fingers. His kiss roughened, his tongue sinking into her as he took what he wanted, and she was lost, drowning in a dark tide of sensation.

As a woman who’d been a wife, mother, and widow, she’d thought there was nothing left to learn. But West Ravenel was transforming every notion of what a kiss could be. He kissed like a man who had lived too fast, learned too late, and had finally found the thing he wanted. She couldn’t help writhing in response, her body aching for deeper, closer contact. He reached down with one hand to anchor her hips against his, and it felt so good she could have swooned. She moaned and pressed as tightly as possible to the hard terrain of his body . . . so very hard. Even with the layers of clothing between them, she could feel how aroused he was, the shape of him hard and aggressive.

Trembling, Phoebe turned her mouth from his. Her body didn’t seem to belong to her. She could hardly stand on her own. She couldn’t think. Her forehead leaned on his shoulder as she waited for the wild pumping of her heart to subside.

West buried a quiet curse into the mass of her pinned-up hair. His arms relaxed gradually, one of his hands wandering over her slender back in an aimless, soothing pattern. When he’d managed to moderate his breathing, he said gruffly, “Don’t say that was nice.”

Phoebe pressed a crooked smile against his shoulder before she replied. “It wasn’t.” It had been extraordinary. A revelation. One of her hands crept up to his lean cheek and shaped to it gently. “And it must never happen again.”

West was very still, considering that. He responded with a single nod of agreement and turned his lips to the center of her palm with urgent pressure.

Impulsively she stood on her toes and whispered in his ear. “There’s nothing wicked about you, except your kisses.” And she fled the room while she was still able.





Chapter 14




Evie, Duchess of Kingston, had spent a perfectly wonderful afternoon picnicking with her three closest friends at Lord Westcliff’s estate. Long ago she had met Annabelle, Lillian, and Daisy during her first London Season, when they had been a group of wallflowers sitting in chairs at the side of the ballroom. While becoming acquainted, it had occurred to them that instead of competing for gentlemen’s attentions, they would do better to help each other, and so a lifelong friendship had blossomed. In the past few years it had become a rare luxury for all of them to be together at once, especially since Daisy stayed in America with her husband, Matthew, for long periods of time. The trips were necessary for both of them: Matthew was a successful business entrepreneur, and Daisy was a successful novelist with a publisher in New York as well as London.

After a day filled with talking, laughing, reminiscing and making future plans, Evie had returned to Eversby Priory in high spirits. She was full of news to share with her husband . . . including the fact that the protagonist of Daisy’s current novel in progress had been partly inspired by him.

“I had the idea when the subject of your husband came up at a dinner party a few months ago, Evie,” Daisy had explained, dabbing at a tiny stain left by a strawberry that had fallen onto her bodice. “Someone remarked that Kingston was still the handsomest man in England, and how unfair it was that he never ages. And Lillian said he must be a vampire, and everyone laughed. It started me thinking about that old novel The Vampyre, published about fifty years ago. I decided to write something similar, only a romantic version.”

Lillian had shaken her head at the notion. “I told Daisy no one would want to read about a vampire lover. Blood . . . teeth . . .” She grimaced and shivered.