Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

Despite the dizzying heat, a growl of amusement escaped. "No, lucky me."

He caught her hand and pressed his lips to those fluttering fingers. "I want to see you."

When he kissed her lips, her fevered enthusiasm made his blood pound. Reluctantly he raised his head. She was as addictive as wine. Her face was flushed and lovely, and her expression spoke surrender. But for all her boldness, he caught a shadow of earlier shyness.

"You're a gift," he murmured.

"Then pray, unwrap me," she whispered.

How he delighted in these hints of saucy humor. Carefully he gathered the nightdress in his hands. Slowly he slid it upward, knuckles brushing smooth, still unseen skin over thighs and hips and flanks. With a sudden tug, the garment was over her head and on its way to a distant corner. He caught her supple waist and lowered her to the bed.

Urgency rang through him like a volley of trumpets, but he delayed long enough to snatch an incendiary glimpse of her. Nothing in his heated fantasies matched the pure white perfection of Fenella Deerham, lying bare and impatient for his possession.

She was all long, lissome lines, stronger and leaner without clothes than she looked in her fashionable gowns. Slim grace, subtle curves, high pointed breasts shaped to fit his hands.

He came down over her, supporting himself on one arm while his hand began a wanton exploration. Her skin was soft and smooth, and the color of new cream. He cupped one delicious breast and his thumb brushed the beaded pink tip.

As her nipple tightened to a pebbled raspberry point, her eyelids flickered down and her breath escaped in jagged gasps. In a plea for more, she moved restlessly on the sheets.

Slowly, although his craving built like a great crescendo, his hand drifted down her flank to her hip. She was shaking. So was he.

She rolled toward him and pressed her hot face into his chest. Her hands ran up and down his arms. Husky murmurs spurred him on. His hand trailed down to her buttocks, then around to part her thighs.

He stroked her slick cleft, tracing the secret valleys and rises. Her musky, female scent intoxicated him. With a shuddering gasp, she shifted onto her back to offer him access. Again he marveled at her generosity. When his thumb found the hard little knot of her pleasure and she jerked in response, he set out to tease and arouse.

She tautened under his caresses and when he slid one finger, then two into her, she whimpered. Gently at first, then with increasing urgency, he worked her. The needy clench of her muscles around his fingers threatened to blast him to ash. His balls tightened to the point of agony, but still he lingered to ensure her readiness.

She'd waited so long for a lover's touch. By God, he'd make the wait worthwhile, or his name wasn't Anthony Townsend.

He bent to take one pink nipple into his mouth. Flicking with his tongue, scraping his teeth over the sensitive peak, until she cried out and raised her hips to meet his seeking hand.

After an interval of delightful torture, she dug her fingers into his hair and pulled until she had his attention. With the salty taste of her skin tangy on his tongue, he looked up.

"Don't wait." She ran her fingers through his hair. "I want you so much."

"I want you, too," he murmured. How profound the simple words became when spoken to the right woman.

He angled himself up and kissed her. She made a discontented sound against his lips and deepened the contact, but he pulled away.

Anthony was in such a lather to be inside her, his control shredded to tatters. He was sharply conscious of his proportions and he feared hurting her, despite her ardor. Gently he spread her legs and, using his hand to guide his entry, slid inside her.

Dear Lord, she was tight. She panted and dug her fingernails into his bare shoulders until he felt the sting. The hell of it was, he wasn't sure he could stop. Not now, poised on the edge of bliss.

His balls burned to complete the joining. Every muscle coiled until he feared he'd explode like an overheated chestnut in a fire. His heart pounded so ferociously, it must rattle the windows.

Fenella tugged at his hair again. Given her dreamy expression only moments ago, her uncompromising stare surprised him. "Anthony," she said clearly. "I won't break."

"What the devil?"

Her hands framed his face and she stretched up to kiss his mouth with an unfettered eagerness that threatened to blow his head off. "I appreciate your consideration, I really do."

"That's good," he said doubtfully. By God, it was difficult to talk and rein in his ravenous urges at the same time. He was close to forgetting that she was lovely and refined—and unused to great brutes heaving about on top of her.

"But you're driving me mad with frustration," she said.

"I don't want to hurt you."

The softness in her eyes set his heart thumping in a whole new rhythm. "You won't hurt me. I've done this before. Remember?"