Page 103 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Instead, she drew him flush to her.
He brushed the softest kiss on her lips. “Then I promise to fill you with every imaginable tale. Tonight.”
She raised a knee, stroking her leg on his. He gathered her petticoats, volumes of them, until he glimpsed his prize—white wool stockings gartered with red above the knee. Another tempting bow he ought to untie. He slid a hand the length of her thigh and found it.
“Thomas, I—”
Mary hissed when he caressed her bare inner thigh. Red-and-white wool billowed like colorful clouds on her hip. He was losing himself to the airy rustle of cloth, to the hitch of her breath mingling with his. Her face disappeared when his lashes dropped, all the better to unleash his other senses. To feel, smell, and taste her.
The world needed to go away. There could only be this—Mary melting into him. Gentle rubbing, his mouth on hers. Warm and wet. He kissed the thrilling corner of her mouth. He kissed her lips, her stubborn chin, her neck. He would devote hours to her pleasure—to her liking for rough, fast bed sport and her glossy-eyed surrender when he was oh so tender.
“Mary...” Her name was a plea from a drowning man.
His questing hands traveled up her ribs. Wool abraded his palms cresting Mary’s salacious curves. He craved what was hidden. Her skin. Her nipples. Her cleavage, which he adored. His fingertips slid above her bodice. A neckerchief was in the way.
He moaned and pulled away.
Gauzy fabric tried to hide her swelling breasts. Blasted, useless cloth.
He toyed with it. “How much of your breasts does this neckerchief cover?”
Mary opened her eyes. She was like a swimmer, breaking the surface, desperate for air.
“My neckerchief?”
“Yes. This.” He pinched its gossamer lightness.
Curls had come undone and her mobcap slipped. She was more wanton chambermaid than staid shopkeeper.
“It’s long. I tuck the ends under each breast.”
“Do you?” He tugged it lightly, deviously, and her eyes rounded. “Directly on the skin?”
Her tender nipples were undoubtedly teased by the pull.
The tip of her tongue wetted her lips. “Should I tuck it anywhere else?”
“Saucy wench. You’ll pay for that.”
Their legs were tangled and their breath hot. He pressed a hand under her breast to make the neckerchief’s journey out of her bodice agonizingly slow. Mary’s hip pumped sluggishly against his. A mutual torture. He’d make it last.
Pulling inch by inch, the neckerchief was coming free. Mary gasped long, her eyes glossy. Their gazeslocked in sensual torment. Her stomacher was well used and boneless, and her stays, light and short. He raised a hallelujah for old stomachers and light stays, all the better to feel a woman.
“Now, where did I leave our tale?” he asked.
Mary thrust her charms at him, drunk on their game. “Why, I believe the siren was punished by a sea god.”
He dragged the neckerchief nipple-teasing inches upward.
“Yes, punished.” His lips curled inward. “For tempting the wrong shipmaster.”
A flush darkened Mary’s cheeks. Were her nipples changing color? A dark red? Were they distended and begging to be sucked? For all her delight in rough play, she liked her nipples treated with the utmost care.
Heat shot through him.Chubby Cupid and his arrows.The little god knew where to aim.
Thomas ground his back teeth. This wasn’t going well for him. His placket was tenting ruthlessly at the woman pinned submissively before him.
The siren of White Cross Street was winning.
