Page 35 of Tempting Mr. Townsend
After last night, her eagerness was familiar, but the freedom in her response was new. His tongue swept into her mouth, and when she greeted him without hesitation, animal hunger jolted him. He buried his hands in the luxuriant hair and angled her face up for a kiss of unabashed carnality. She followed where he went, until the unforgettable moment when she thrust her tongue into his mouth and a hum of enjoyment emerged from her throat.
Anthony backed her toward the bed. Fenella was a creature of light and fire. Not afraid, but his equal. He loved that. Although in the last few days, the differences between them had matteredless and less, and what counted now was that he was a man in thrall to a woman, and that woman wanted him back.
He couldn't mistake her desire. Her greedy hands explored his chest and shoulders, bunching the silk against his skin until the dressing gown crumpled to the floor.
Her eyes devoured him with considerably more enthusiasm than she'd shown for the excellent dinner he'd watched her pick at. “Mr. Townsend, you are magnificent. I'm quite overcome.”
Her blatant sensual interest—and admiration—filled him with pride. He loved that his big, muscular body pleased her. He'd feared she'd recoil from his size and vigor.
But he couldn't mistake the avid hunger in her eyes. Or in her touch as she flattened both hands on his broad chest with its thatch of black hair.
“Mmm,” she murmured appreciatively.
Hell, these throaty murmurs tested his control. His cock, hard and erect, twitched. He clenched his hands in the flimsy lawn covering her hips, as he fought the urge to push her down and plunge into her.
“I'm very large,” he said, almost in apology.
She bit her lip in hesitation, then to his astonishment, her glance fell to his dick, stiff and heavy and insistent. “Yes, you are.”
His heart crashed to a stop when she slid one of those softlady'shands down his belly, setting every muscle jumping. And curled her fingers around him. “Lucky me.”
Despite the dizzying heat, a growl of amusement escaped. “No, luckyme.”
He caught her hand and pressed his lips to those fluttering fingers. “I want to see you.”
When he kissed her lips, her fevered enthusiasm made his blood pound. Reluctantly he raised his head. She was as addictive as wine. Her face was flushed and lovely, and herexpression spoke surrender. But for all her boldness, he caught a shadow of earlier shyness.
“You're a gift” he murmured.
“Then pray, unwrap me,” she whispered.
How he delighted in these hints of saucy humor. Carefully he gathered the nightdress in his hands. Slowly he slid it upward, knuckles brushing smooth, still unseen skin over thighs and hips and flanks. With a sudden tug, the garment was over her head and on its way to a distant corner. He caught her supple waist and lowered her to the bed.
Urgency rang through him like a volley of trumpets, but he delayed long enough to snatch an incendiary glimpse of her. Nothing in his heated fantasies matched the pure white perfection of Fenella Deerham, lying bare and impatient for his possession.
She was all long, lissome lines, stronger and leaner without clothes than she looked in her fashionable gowns. Slim grace, subtle curves, high pointed breasts shaped to fit his hands.
He came down over her, supporting himself on one arm while his hand began a wanton exploration. Her skin was soft and smooth, and the color of new cream. He cupped one delicious breast, and his thumb brushed the beaded pink tip.
As her nipple tightened to a pebbled raspberry point, her eyelids flickered down and her breath escaped in jagged gasps. In a plea for more, she moved restlessly on the sheets.
Slowly, although his craving built like a great crescendo, his hand drifted down her flank to her hip. She was shaking. So was he.
She rolled toward him and pressed her hot face into his chest. Her hands ran up and down his arms. Husky murmurs spurred him on. His hand trailed down to her buttocks, then around to part her thighs.
He stroked her slick cleft, tracing the secret valleys and rises. Her musky, female scent intoxicated him. With a shuddering gasp, she shifted onto her back to offer him access. Again he marveled at her generosity. When his thumb found the hard little knot of her pleasure and she jerked in response, he set out to tease and arouse.
She tautened under his caresses and when he slid one finger, then two into her, she whimpered. Gently at first, then with increasing urgency, he worked her. The needy clench of her muscles around his fingers threatened to blast him to ash. His balls tightened to the point of agony, but still he lingered to ensure her readiness.
She'd waited so long for a lover's touch. By God, he'd make the wait worthwhile, or his name wasn't Anthony Townsend.
He bent to take one pink nipple into his mouth. Flicking with his tongue, scraping his teeth over the sensitive peak, until she cried out and raised her hips to meet his seeking hand.
After an interval of delightful torture, she dug her fingers into his hair and pulled until she had his attention. With the salty taste of her skin tangy on his tongue, he looked up.
“Don't wait.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I want you so much.”
“I want you, too,” he murmured. How profound the simple words became when spoken to the right woman.
