Page 49 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Her first kiss in five years—she prayed it wouldn’t end.
The sea wolf’s hand on her hip was insistent. Kneading. Holding. Soothing. His fingers were aching inches from her hot little cleft.
She squeezed his muscled chest and found his radically thumping heart.
He answered by reaching around and squeezing her bottom cheek.
She yelped, stumbling back. She touched herkiss-swollen lips reverently, but five fingertips branded the skin on one half of her bottom. Her sea wolf was no less affected. He cuffed his mouth with the back of his hand, panting as if he’d sprinted all the way from London Bridge.
“Miss Fletcher.” His voice was craggy and heated, and his eyes amused, predatory slits taking in her bodice.
She looked down. A pinkish nipple jutted over red velvet. The other was hidden by her hair. Both her breasts were in danger of popping free of her gown. She let them be. Mr. West’s eyes feasted on them, his face a fierce mask. She dragged her hair back to improve his view.
“Is this better?”
Sensualists everywhere would approve.
His nostrils flared. “You’re killing me.”
The feeling was mutual, and this was only one passionate kiss.
One fact was undeniable: the staid corset maker of White Cross Street had broken free.
She was breathing hard, overwarm, and off-kilter. And suddenly detesting all her layers of clothes. What was she to do about this messy, nearly sweating fervor which had overtaken her? Seduction ought to be savored, not a calamitous mess. It was horrible, this wanting an ordered existence. Arms falling to her sides, she tried to clear her head, but organizing her thoughts was like swimming in a vat of honey.
“I meant this to go differently.”
“Yours was an excellent greeting.”
“I should like to try again,” she said.
Mr. West’s laugh was low and carnal. “I’ve no complaints with your last effort.”
She paced the room like a restless cat. This explosive craving was a new development. Tonight was supposed to be about scratching an itch with a desirable man. Lusty, yes. But... manageable.
Tell that to the flesh between her legs. It throbbed. Full, slippery.Demanding.
She curled a hand against her abdomen. Nothing in her scant experience with men prepared her for—forhim.
A rapacious sea wolf.
“Is something wrong?” Mr. West asked.
“No.”
Everything was much too right, except for the clock on the mantel showing the dreaded hour. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Ten minutes.That was all she had until the stroke of midnight.
If only Mr. West had come earlier...
A quick coupling wouldn’t do, and there was Mr. MacLeod. She dared not risk him pounding on the door.
When she opened her eyes, Mr. West was against the bedpost, smoldering.
She shivered.
His presence was palpable and his scent on her skin.
