Page 61 of Once an Angel
He drew Emily deeper into his arms, savoring the lush feel of her bare skin against his own. She looked so terribly young with her lips parted in sleep. He felt more than a little depraved, wanting her so desperately, but still he could not stem the swift tide of desire rising in him. He swore softly under his breath.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon he would awaken like this every morning, snuggled with Emily on the . . . floor. The floor? He would have to build a bed for the hut immediately. Hell, he'd have to build a new hut. One with a separate room for Penfeld at a discreet distance from their own. And another room, airy with sunlight and decorated in chintz and dolls.
He felt a reluctant grin touch his lips. What would Emily say when he informed her they would start
their new life with a daughter? She had professed a gruff dislike for children, but he had seen how
Kawiri and Dani adored her. She treated them like people, not dolls.
He traced her features with his loving gaze. She had taught him so much in so short a time. She had charged headlong into his life, meeting its challenges with verve and tenacity. He owed her nothing less.
He was done cowering from life. He was no longer going to hide from his family, his inheritance, or
even from the child awaiting him in England. When they returned to the hut, he would pen a letter to
his father, asking him to see to Claire Scarborough's well-being until he could send for her. A hint of bitterness touched him. His father would probably have an easier time understanding if the child had
been gotten off some mistress rather than from a pledge to a dying friend.
Emily stirred, moving her lips in a seeking caress against his chest. His doubts melted at her touch. His spirits soared, unfettered by guilt or remorse. It was as if her innocence had somehow washed away his own dark sins.
His thoughts, though, were far from virginal as Emily stretched with feline grace, giving him an untrammeled view of her delectable body, all vanilla cream sprinkled with cinnamon.
He crooked an eyebrow. Surely even the most noble gentleman allowed himself a few liberties with the woman he intended to make his bride.
* * *
Someone was stroking Emily like a kitten. She was afraid to open her eyes for fear they would stop. Her drowsy contentment was melting to a quicksilver shimmer of joy. The touch was completely unselfish. It demanded nothing of her, but gave only pleasure—pure, feathery strokes of pleasure. She tried to catch her breath but couldn't.
Justin hadn't played the piano in years, but he played Emily like a master, using the full skill of his long, tan fingers to bring her to the shuddering brink of ecstasy.
His lips caught her cry as his touch splintered her into a thousand shards of pleasure.
Her eyes slowly fluttered open. Justin hung over her, breathing hard, his slanted grin both proud and endearing.
"What was that?" she asked, gulping for breath.
"A hurricane? An earthquake?" he offered.
She blinked in wonder. "Was it legal?"
"Probably not. Immoral, too. I fear I just took shameless advantage of you."
"Am I compromised?"
He laid his lips against hers in a lingering caress. "If I compromise you, you'll know it. I promise."
They rose with reluctance, hesitant to leave their sandy haven. Justin went in search of Emily's bandeau, leaving her sitting in the sand, her hands pressed shyly over her breasts. The morning wind ruffled her curls. She stared out to sea, fighting off the panic that threatened to claim her. How could she have been so foolish as to believe she could take Justin's soul without losing her own?
He reappeared, dangling her bandeau from his finger like a flag of surrender. He insisted on tying it himself, sneaking behind her to nuzzle the back of her neck. She moaned helplessly as his arousal
nudged against her rump.
"A normal phenomenon of the morning?" she asked him.
He reached around to stroke her nipples beneath the thin calico. "That's right. It has nothing to do with you."
"Liar," she whispered, wiggling against him.
