Page 40 of A Wicked Game

“You’re beautiful, Harry.”

His voice was deeper than before. Rougher. Darker. She shivered as his fingers continued their petal-soft exploration.

He wasmappingher body, discovering every dip andcurve. His thumb slid into the hollow at the base of her throat and she cursed the betraying pounding of her pulse. His fingers skimmed the hillocks of her breasts, then dipped teasingly into the valley between, and her stomach twisted in hot agitation.

His breath tickled the sensitive shell of her ear as his hand slid down to cover her breast, over the stays.

“For kiss number two, I choose here.”

Harriet almost groaned in delight.

“Yes?” he rasped. “Say yes or I’ll stop.”

She summoned every ounce of her courage. “Yes.”

He pushed down the fabric, exposing her whole breast to the cool air, and she sucked in a shocked breath as his big hand cupped her, a perfect fit. Her nipple puckered and pressed into his palm.

A rumble of pleasure escaped him.

Dear God, what a sensation.

She felt a disturbance in the air, and his lips brushed her skin an inch above her nipple. With a gasp, she lifted her hands from her sides and grabbed his head, threading her fingers through the cool waves of his hair.

He was kissing her: not one kiss but many, his lips fluttering over her skin like a butterfly that couldn’t decide where to land. The faint scrape of his evening beard turned her knees to water, and her stomach clenched as she felt the rasp of his tongue over her aching nipple.

With a sound that seemed part rapture, part pain, he drew her into his mouth, sucking on her, hot and wet, a tug that caused a corresponding tug deep in her belly. His left hand covered her other breast, squeezing it lightly, and she tightened her grip on his hair, unsure whether to hold him close or push him away.

It was torment, but of the wickedest, most incredible kind. Without sight, she was aware of nothing but thedelicious friction of his skin, the heat of his mouth, the strength of his body.

“Morgan!”

“Yes-s-s-s.” He groaned it against her, as much a vibration as a sound, but the word seemed to recall him to what he was doing. He leaned back, putting space between them, dislodging her hands from his hair.

The cool waft of air against her skin jolted her from the drugging sensual haze he’d created. Dear God, what must she look like? Blindfolded. Bare-breasted in the firelight. Like some ancient pagan reveler.

Heat scalded her cheeks. She tugged her stays back up to cover her breasts, then reached up and pushed the scarf up over her head, blinking at the relative brightness of the library again.

Morgan stood in front of her, his expression impossible to define. His breathing seemed as labored as hers, his eyes dark pools.

Harriet’s entire body was alive, tingling with desire, and when she tried to button her shirt, her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled them.

He brushed her hands aside. “Let me do it.”

She looked up into his face with a sinking feeling. Oh, she was in so much trouble. Not because she’d let him do this wicked thing. But because she wanted him to do it again.

“This is a wicked game.”

She hadn’t meant to say thatout loud.

Morgan’s head was bent as he concentrated on her buttons, but she saw his lips twitch.

“A very wicked game,” he agreed. He fastened the last of her buttons neatly under her chin and stepped back, his face assuming its standard, amused expression. “But there’s no one I’d rather be playing it with than you.”

Chapter Seventeen

Harriet gazed at him, her thoughts in a whirl. Should she scold him for taking such liberties? Or be ashamed of herself because she’d encouraged them?

This kind of education was precisely what she’d hoped for when she’d engineered their bet. Admittedly, she’d only thought to enjoy three wonderfully passionate kisses, but that was because her imagination hadn’t been nearly as broad as Morgan’s. He’d taken things to a whole new level.

---