Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(49)

She drew in a sharp breath. “I’ve been in mourning, you . . . you cretin!”

West didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “It’s been two years. Were I in Larson’s place, I’d at least have kissed you.”

“I’ve been living in my parents’ home. There’s been no opportunity.”

“Desire creates opportunity.”

“I’m not some young girl hoping for a stolen kiss behind the potted palms. I have other priorities now. Edward will be a good father to my children, and . . .” Phoebe turned back to the bookshelves, neatening a line of volumes, rubbing away a trace of book dust from one of the ancient leather spines. “Physical relations aren’t everything.”

“Hang it all, Phoebe, they’re not nothing, either.”

Risking a glance at West, she saw that he’d dropped his head in his hands. “Women have different needs than men,” she said.

His voice was muffled. “You’re killing me.”

One of the bookbindings had a torn edge. She stroked it with a fingertip, as if that would heal it. “The memories are enough,” she said quietly.

Silence.

“Most of those feelings died with Henry,” she added.

More silence.

Had West left the room? Baffled by his lack of response, Phoebe turned to glance at him again. She jerked in surprise as she found him right behind her.

Before she could say a word, he hauled her into his arms, and his mouth came down to hers.





Chapter 18




The kiss was cool and wine-sweet, swiftly gaining intensity. She felt the urgent stroke of his tongue, as if he were trying to gather as much of her taste as he could before she stopped him. He gathered her closer, and she couldn’t help yielding, letting her head fall back against his supportive arm. This was the truth her body couldn’t hide—she wanted this, his hunger, his heart pounding against hers.

West’s mouth slid from hers and followed the line of her throat. Finding the throb of her pulse, he kissed and nuzzled it ardently. “You’re not a possession,” he said raggedly. “You can’t be passed from one man to another like a painting or an antique vase.”

Her voice was faint. “That’s not how it is.”

“Has he told you he wants you?”

“Not the way you mean. He . . . he’s a gentleman . . .”

“I want you with my entire body.” West gripped her head and dragged his mouth over hers, shaping her lips before settling in for a rough and ardent kiss. He hitched her up against him until her toes barely touched the floor. “You’re all I think about. You’re all I see. You’re the center of a star, and the force of gravity keeps pulling me closer, and I don’t give a damn that I’m about to be incinerated.” He rested his forehead against hers, panting. “That’s what he should tell you.”

Somewhere in Phoebe’s mind, there were practical thoughts, sensible words, but they were drowned in a tide of sensation as his mouth covered hers again. He kissed her with the fullness of a man’s passion, slow and relentless, consuming her as if he were fire and she were oxygen. She opened for him, clung to him, her body melting into his. She was surrounded by arms so powerful he could have crushed her. Her blood raced at a speed that made her lightheaded and weakened her knees.

West lowered her to the floor, easily controlling their descent. He knelt over her, stripped off his coat and tossed it aside, and roughly unknotted his necktie. She knew she could stop him with a word, but instead she lay there trembling with anticipation for things she couldn’t even name. Reaching down, he pushed back the hem of her skirts a few inches to uncover her ankles. He removed her low-heeled slippers, his fingers curving gently beneath her heels, and then . . . he bent to press his lips over the silk of her stockings, kissing each foot in turn.

Phoebe could only stare at him, stunned by the tender, worshipful gesture.

He held her gaze, his eyes a shade of blue she’d seen only in dreams. He bent over her, the solid, exciting weight of him urging her legs apart beneath the skirts. One of his arms slid beneath her neck, and his mouth sought hers again. He was so careful, so assured, absorbed in her every response. His fingertips wandered over exposed skin wherever he could find it, her wrists, her throat, the shadowed places behind her ears.

The tender friction of his mouth sent fire dancing to the ends of her nerves, and she couldn’t help squirming beneath him. She was beginning to understand temptation as she never had before, how it could unravel a well-behaved lifetime in a matter of minutes. The bodice of her dress was loose—he’d unfastened it before she’d even noticed. Her corset was partially boned and made with silk elastic, more flexible than the usual stiff contraption of steel and tough cotton coutil. After unhooking the top, he lifted her breasts free of the half cups. She felt the wet touch of his tongue, a line of heat painted across a tense nipple. His lips closed over her and tugged gently, sending shocks of pleasure down to her toes. Moving to the other breast, he drew the tender budded peak into his mouth, sucking and playing with it.

One of his hands reached down to grasp the front of her skirts, pulling up the fabric until the only layers between them were his trousers and the thin cotton voile of her drawers. He let her have more of his weight, hardness nudging against swelling softness, relieving the hot ache. She felt the slight roughness of his palm cupping beneath her breast, his thumb prodding and stroking the tip. No matter how she tried to stay still, pleasure stirred all through her . . . pulses, twitches, flutters, all begging to be gathered into a single chord of release. Her hips nudged upward in a rhythmic movement beyond her control. Later, she would be mortified at the memory of her wanton behavior, but for now the need was too overpowering.