Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows 4)

She reached up to untie his neck cloth, letting it drift to the floor. His shirt fell open, revealing a hard masculine chest beneath. Unable to resist, she placed her hand flat on that golden skin and felt him shudder in reaction. He was so warm. She raked her fingers through the curls of golden hair across his pectorals.

Even now he undressed, her courage didn’t desert her. She’d expected to feel shy and awkward and inadequate. But this unpretentious house and the efforts Gervaise had taken to please her banished her misgivings.

When Sally had suggested that she should seduce Lord Pascal, it had seemed a bizarre idea. But here in this quiet room on this sunny afternoon, it didn’t seem so outlandish.

This close, she caught his delicious scent. Clean male with a hint of healthy sweat. Lemon soap. Horses. Leather. Wilfred had smelled like an old man—an old, sick man toward the end. Gervaise smelled like a vital male in his prime.

Amy surrendered to wanton impulse and leaned into him, breathing deeply. She pressed her lips to his chest, tasting the salt on his skin. The tickle of his hair against her face reminded her that this was no fairytale, but a deeply carnal encounter.

Suddenly it felt like they had all the time in the world. He held her hips, but seemed content to let her continue to take the lead, despite her inexperience. Languorously, she stroked his chest, then unbuttoned his blue silk waistcoat. Her fingers remained steady and sure as they slid the waistcoat off his shoulders.

Gervaise reached for her, but she stepped out of reach. “Let me do this.”

“You’re driving me mad,” he groaned. Standing before her in his loose white shirt and fawn breeches, he looked disheveled and gorgeous.

“Good. I want you so much.”

His smile was wry. “Not as much as I want you.”

When she glanced up at his face, stern and beautiful as a Donatello carving, she almost believed him. “I’ve been plotting to get you to myself since I was fourteen.”

“If only I’d known.”

She didn’t waste time on regrets. They’d met again at the right time. He wrenched his shirt over his head and hurled it into the corner.

The superb view made the breath snag in her throat. “Dear God, you’re magnificent.”

“Amy…” he began, but when she raised her hands to release her hair, whatever he meant to say was lost as he watched her draw the pins free. At the sight of her hair tum

bling about her shoulders, his eyes flared with hunger.

She stepped forward and twined her arms around his neck. She could hardly bear to go even an instant without touching him. “Kiss me.”

Luscious, dark, succulent cooperation left her head swimming and her knees weak. Slowly he lifted away, as she struggled to remain upright on legs that threatened to fold beneath her.

“My turn?” he murmured.

Reluctantly she opened her eyes. His taste lingered on her lips. “Not yet.”

He bit back another groan and buried his hands in her hair. “Have pity.”

“Oh, no.” Amy ran her hands over his skin again. It was such a luxury, touching him like this. The firm chest, the wide shoulders, the powerful back. At his sides, his fists opened and closed, and by the time she scored her nails across his nipples, he was shaking.

Who would have thought she could make this sophisticated man shake?

Power surged higher. Daringly she released the buttons on his breeches. The intriguing bulge inside them beckoned. With trembling hands, she revealed his hardness.

At first sight of him, a gasp escaped her. Gervaise’s virility awed her, and the nerves that she hoped she’d conquered jumped up to snatch away her confidence.

She’d reached to touch him, but galloping uncertainty made her pause. Before she could withdraw, he caught her hand and pressed it against him. Every drop of moisture evaporated from her mouth, as she held his heat and power.

“Like this,” he murmured, shaping her hand around him. He jerked under her tentative caress, and she instinctively tightened her grip. A low growl of masculine pleasure was her reward.

It turned out her confidence hadn’t fled after all. His response did wonders for her self-assurance. With voluptuous pleasure in what she did, Amy began to stroke him.

As he grew larger under her brazen caress, she watched his face. His eyes were half-closed, and a hectic flush marked those slashing cheekbones. A frown drew his eyebrows together, as if what she did tested the outer reaches of his limits.

When she squeezed, he opened his eyes fully. The dilated pupils took over most of the blue and betrayed his excitement. “Let me touch you,” he grated out, his usually melodious baritone as rough as gravel.