Page 43 of The Devil in Her Bed
Don’t fall for this, she recriminated.This isn’t real.
Her body didn’t mark her as he swept her into his arms and conquered the stairs two at a time. His steps echoed like gunshots in the eerie quiet of the house. No, not quiet. Emptiness. She knew, somehow, that they were utterly alone. No maids, footmen, or underbutlers slept beneath this roof.
No one to hear her scream.
The thought was at once erotic and alarming, as was the manner in which he kicked open a bedroom door, deposited her on a cavernous bed, and maneuvered himself between her legs before she could think to stop him.
He covered her body as he captured her mouth,claiming it so utterly, her head emptied of thought and her body brimming with need.
Would succumbing to this all-consuming lust be such a sin?
While he supported his weight with one hand, his other caressed her cheek, her jaw, and fluttered against the corner of her lip before gently drawing her mouth open to resume the damp exploration he’d begun in the coach.
His mouth. His hard, wicked mouth. She’d never experienced its like. It yielded against her lips with surprising smoothness, the pressure perfect and passionate.
Oh, the things he might do with that mouth.
Should she? Should they…?
No.
If Francesca had been alone, she might have slapped herself, just to break whatever spell he weaved with the promise of pleasure.
No.Not until she knew who he was.
Until she could be sure of what he wasn’t.
“Wait,” she whispered. The slight pressure of her hands levered him away from her, which made her feel a great deal safer.
At least he listened. He didn’t insist. So many men wouldn’t hear those words from her.Wait. No. Stop. Don’t. Not yet.She had to learn—to train herself—to be physically agile, strong, and devious in order to avoid so many awful situations.
But with one word, one press of her hand… he stopped.
He waited.
It ingratiated him to her a great deal.
“It… it’s too dark.”
“I do my best work in the dark.”
Of that, Francesca had no doubt.
Lowering his head, he ran questing lips along her jaw and sifted down the column of her neck.
He made it to the bodice of her dress with little caressing kisses before she could muddle together any reason. “But it’s cold. Are you not cold? Mightn’t we have a fire laid in the hearth?”
She felt rather than saw his frown against her clavicle, and she had to ignore the insistent press of her beaded nipple quivering just below her plunging neckline.
“Ye’re cold?” he murmured, certainly thinking about how late in the summer it was. Or how warm and flushed her skin felt by his. “Doona worry,” he rumbled. “I’ll keep ye warm with my body. Besides, with the amount of physical activity and friction we’re about to—”
“Just a lamp then,” she insisted. “Or two. I want to see you. Like I said. To see… us.”
“Well, in that case.” His breath quickened in the dark, as if the thought tempted him a great deal. He heaved himself away from her, and she marked his shadow as he went to the mantel for matches.
“Might I ring for a drink?” she asked, palming the tonic in her pocket. The glass felt as smooth as a well-told lie.
“No need. There’s several on the sideboard,” he answered.
