Page 41 of The Defiant One
"Yes. Outsmart Lucien . . ."
"And make love." She gasped as he deftly unbuttoned her breeches and slid his fingers beneath the warm buckskin to find her silken mound. "Now."
"Yes. Now . . ."
His hands caught the waistband of her breeches in unspoken command. Through the fabric she could feel the warmth of his palms against her hips, the strength of his hands against her thighs. Celsie lifted her bottom from the seat, and slowly, agonizingly, he pulled the soft buckskin down her thighs, pushing them down to her knees and exposing her long white legs — and everything else — to his appraising gaze.
He stared. His eyelids drooped. His breathing changed, and when he looked up at her, she saw that the little striations in his eyes had become very, very green.
"No — keep them open," he said harshly, thrusting his hand between her thighs like a blade when she would have closed them in forgotten modesty. "I want to look at you."
"I swear, I can feel your eyes upon me."
"Can you? You'll soon be feeling more than just my eyes upon you."
His gaze burned into hers for another moment, and then he looked back down at her, and stayed looking at her, and every place his gaze touched seemed to burn with a savage, unrequited longing.
Still looking his fill, he dragged his hand higher, his fingertips skirting the soft triangular tuft of hair. Celsie tensed. His hand was big and warm against her belly, and she looked down to see the palm spread out over the alabaster skin, the tip of one finger just nestled within the top edge of her silken curls. He let his hand remain there for a long moment, warming her, tantalizing her, than let it slide downward, his forefinger driving between her cleft and stroking a hidden button of tingling, needle-hot flesh once, twice, three times.
Celsie jumped, then moaned deep in her throat.
"I see that my hypothesis is correct," he murmured, smiling.
"Your . . . hypothesis?"
"Yes. I hypothesized that you would be hot and wet and ready for me. You are."
"It's embarrassing."
He was still stroking her with the tip of his forefinger. "It's flattering."
"It's beyond my control."
"It's making me hard. So hard that I ache."
She flushed and, as he continued that slow, maddening stroke, heard strange little whimperings coming from her throat, bringing his intense gaze back to her face. His hand paused, becoming rigid against her. "What is wrong, Celsiana? Yesterday you were a tigress. Today you are a kitten. Am I the only one who is going out of my mind with need?"
"No . . . but you're the one who drank the whole damned bottle of laced brandy. I only had a sip. Just enough to keep me from saying no . . ."
"If you want me to stop, I'm afraid you'll have to bodily throw me out of this carriage."
"I don't want you to stop," she managed, opening her eyes to stare fixedly up into his face.
"Then if you have any fears, qualms, or misgivings, you have only to voice them and I will soothe them to the best of my abilities."
"I have no fears. After all —" she faltered, feeling a sudden pain in her heart — "I am no longer a maiden, am I?"
He sobered. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he was the Andrew she had only glimpsed, the one who gently stroked his dog's head, the one who'd respected her on the dueling field, the one who had warily joked with her a few moments ago, the one who was usually gaoled behind the bars of anger and rudeness. "As I expect you do not remember much, if anything, of what occurred between us yesterday, I'll have you know, Celsie, that I still consider you a maiden in all senses of the word except one."
Celsie. He had called her Celsie. Something hitched inside her heart.
"And I shall contrive to treat you as gently as a maiden deserves to be treated."
So he said. And all the while, she could feel the hard, flat blade of his hand thrust against her dampening cleft, the thumb lazily caressing the silky hair there and igniting the whole area into something hot and twitchy and wanting. She wanted his hand to touch her even more intimately, though she could not think how that would be possible. She wanted his thumb to move slightly more toward the very center of these oh-so-strange, oh-so-delightful, feelings. And she wanted —
The coach hit a bumpy section of road, and Celsie, still gazing up into Andrew's smoldering eyes, gasped as the jerky movement of the coach caused his hand, which he himself hadn't moved, to begin agitating her exposed, already aroused flesh.
"Oh!" she cried, her mouth falling open, her blood frying in her veins as she saw the wicked, lupine gleam in his eyes.
