She struggled to lift her head from his shoulder. Planting her forearms on his chest, she managed it, and looked into his face. “Aren’t you hungry?”
He grinned. “Ravenous.” He caught a stray frizzy curl and tucked it back, met her gaze. “But I’m perfectly content to make do with you.”
The comment pleased her, but also seemed to puzzle her. She studied his eyes. “You really do…like being with me.”
He felt his heart contract. She wasn’t fishing for compliments; she was trying to understand. “Caro…” With his fingertips, he traced her cheek. “I love being with you.”
Hearing the words, he realized how true—simply true—they were. He would rather be with her than anywhere in the world, now or anytime.
She tilted her head. He realized he couldn’t read her eyes not because she was hiding her feelings, but more because, or so it seemed, she was not yet sure what her feelings were. As in order to attain his desired goal, he needed to get her to change her mind, her mental assessing seemed a good sign.
Fingers firming about her jaw, he drew her face to his.
She hesitated just before his lips covered hers, murmured, “I like being like this with you, too.”
He smiled, and kissed her, pleased and reassured by the hint of surprise he heard in her tone, by the implied suggestion she was of her own volition rethinking. He drew her into an easy, unpassionate, soothing exchange. It lengthened, took hold; he let it spin out, and on. He’d already lifted her from him, guessing what her next tack would be. Kissing her back, languid and slow, waiting while their bodies recovered and their senses awoke anew, he waited to see if he’d guessed right.
Caro eventually stirred and drew back, her spine once more straight, her muscles no longer lax. Gripping his shoulders, she pushed back, looked down at the solid evidence he was willing and able to further indulge her.
Her lips curved as her imagination ranged ahead, considering, wondering…for an instant she wondered if she shouldn’t retreat to more restrained behavior. She considered, then pushed the thought from her mind, rejected it. There was too much she’d yet to learn, to experience, to know; so much of her life had already passed, she couldn’t afford not to be bold.
Pressing down on his shoulders, she stood, pleased when her muscles, faintly aching but apparently still able, complied. Moving from him, she caught his gaze, arched an intentionally haughty brow. “My turn, I believe.”
The ends of his lips lifted. “As you wish.”
She studied him for an instant, then commanded, “Your boots—take them off.”
She glimpsed his deepening smile as he bent and did as she’d asked. As soon as his second boot hit the floor, his stockings with it, she caught his hand—and his eyes.
He allowed her to tug him to his feet.
She drew him to the daybed. Released him, faced him. “I want you naked.”
His ga
ze locked with hers; he raised his hands to his cravat.
“No.” She caught his hands, drew them back to his sides before releasing them. “Let me.”
No question—a command, one he obeyed without equivocation.
Stepping closer, she undid his cravat, slowly drew the folds from about his neck. Then she unbuttoned his shirt, his cuffs, helped him draw the linen folds over his head, allowing him to free his hands and toss the shirt aside. She paused, captivated by the expanse of hair-dusted muscle stretched over heavy bone. She’d seen his naked chest yesterday, but hadn’t had time to appreciate the view, not like this with him displayed before her, hers to enjoy as she pleased.
Lips curving, she lifted her eyes to his and reached for his waistband, with both hands pushed his gaping breeches down. Followed them down with her hands, going down on one knee to release the closures below his knees and let the garment puddle about his feet. Hands spread, palms to his thighs, she slowly rose, running her hands upward as she did, cruising up over his hip bones, over the sides of his waist, up over the acres of his chest, ultimately stretching up to frame his face and draw his mouth to hers.
She filled it, surprising him, seizing the lead, then she retreated; lowering her heels to the floor, she placed a hot kiss in the hollow between his collarbones. She took a moment to look, to glory, then spread her hands over his chest. Stroked across the width, then ran her palms down, over his ridged abdomen. Muscles shifted beneath her fingers; eyes wide, briefly meeting his, she gripped his waist and moved closer, touched her lips to the flat disc of his nipple, lowered her lids and kissed, then licked. Lightly, teasingly…eyes closed the better to savor the feel of him, the tangy salty taste of him, she let her hands and her mouth roam, filling her senses.
With him. With the solid reality of his body, a sculpted masculine form she felt an overpowering need to explore. Fingers flexing, stroking, tracing, she followed her touch with her lips, sinking down once more to her knees as she followed the arrow of crinkly dark hair down the center of his body, past the hollow of his navel, down to where his erection stood rigidly awaiting her pleasure. Her attention.
She half expected him to stop her when she took him between her hands. Senses riveted, she barely noticed the light touch of his fingers on her hair, then his fingers speared through the frizzy tresses.
Absorbed with examining the baby-fine skin, the thick, pulsing veins, the heavily flushed velvety head, she was conscious of the rising beat in her blood, and his, the urgency that slowly, caress by caress, rose up to engulf them.
Ultimately it would draw them down, into that vortex of need with which she was growing increasingly familiar. Before then, however…
Michael hadn’t expected her to take him into her mouth—hadn’t expected her to know…
His lungs seized; his fingers tightened on her skull.