Page 28 of Tempting Mr. Townsend
Except that her feet remained stubbornly glued to the floor. And Mr. Townsend remained far too close. Close enough for his warmth to entice her.
When Henry died, a great and eternal coldness had descended that not even her love for Brandon could vanquish.
Apparently the chill wasn't eternal after all. Cold was the last word to describe her reaction to that impetuous kiss. She'd never imagined she could feel like this again. She'd never wanted to feel like this again.
“Damn you, Fenella,” he rasped. His body vibrated with tension, and he looked ready to fight an army single-handed. “If you're going, go. Or take the consequences.”
Staring up at him, she flattened her palms against the door behind her. She should be terrified. But fear, like anger, proved elusive. Instead she was curious to discover if that immense strength could cherish as well as insist.
How brazen.
And dangerous. Mr. Townsend blazed with desire. She shouldn't encourage him. But dear heaven, that warmth drew her, reminded her that through nearly six empty years, no man had placed his hands on her in passion.
She shivered. His ferocious need was shamefully thrilling. Henry, for all his bravery as a soldier, had been the gentlest of men off the battlefield. Mr. Townsend looked ready to gobble her up with one snap of those strong white teeth.
He misunderstood her trembling silence. “After that gaucherie, you have no reason to believe me, but you're safe.”
“I know I am.” She hardly recognized the reedy voice as hers.
His face, all harsh angles and hard male determination, filled with a tenderness that reminded her how careful he'd been with Carey. Even now, when he burned for her, he kept his hands off her.
Which suddenly struck her as a pity.
Misgivings receded under a wave of need. With breathtaking daring, she lifted one hand and laid it on his fine black coat above his thundering heart.
“Fenella? You're playing with fire.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” she murmured, stretching up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his.
He didn't immediately react, so she did it again. Another disappointing lack of response, although a hum emerged from his throat.
Her skills must be rusty. She battled to recall what had once been so spontaneous. It had taken her so long to want to kiss a man again. She had no intention of retiring defeated.
Seeking a clue to how to approach him, she studied Mr. Townsend. He looked disgruntled and bewildered—as well he might, given the way she'd pushed him away after that first tempestuous kiss.
She sucked in a shuddering breath, told herself to be brave, and slid her hand up his chest and around that powerful neck. Tension turned the muscles under her fingers to rock.
Fenella stroked her other hand down his face, tracing the strong, austere bones. She'd forgotten, too, how fascinatingly different a man's body was from hers. And Anthony Townsend had struck her from the first as an uncompromisingly masculine man. She drew his head down and ran her lips over that obstinate jaw.
A muscle flickered in his cheek, and his breath emerged on a hiss. “Blast you, lass, you test me too far.”
Implacable hands caught her waist. For a fraught instant, she wasn't sure if he meant to push her away or drag her closer. That strained, striking face told her he wasn't sure either.
He hauled her against him. She braced for another demonstration of male power.
But this kiss was different. His lips wooed and sipped and tasted. They requested her cooperation instead of demanding it. How could she say no? With a sigh, she gave herself up to him.
* * *
Fenella Deerham was as luscious as a ripe peach, as fragrant as a rose, as soft as new fallen snow. Anthony hungered to seize her and use her for his relentless enjoyment until they sprawled, wrung out and sated.
But even now, when she melted in wordless consent, he wasn't a complete fool. Although he'd been close to completely witless since, instead of slapping his face, she'd launched a seduction of her own.
This was a woman to treasure, not commandeer.
So he eased his death grip on her waist—despite the urge to clutch her tight and never let go—and rather than ravishing hermouth, he played lazily with her lips. Little kisses. A stroke of the tongue too brief to threaten invasion. A nibble here. A nip there.
The storm inside him eased, and languorous pleasure became its own reward. The night and the rambling old house closed around them in soft embrace.
