Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows 4)

“Yes,” she whispered, swaying forward. She’d reached a point where she didn’t want to tease anymore. She just wanted Gervaise. “Touch me.”

“Amy…” he groaned and caught her hand, crushing it against him for one last breathtaking moment. He hauled her into a kiss so urgent, it left her gasping.

Chapter Twelve

Remaining still under Amy’s touch pushed Pascal until he teetered on the edge. What a glorious surprise she turned out to be. He’d expected to need to coax her into revealing her sensuality. Long ago, he’d realized that for a widow, she was close to innocent.

So when she’d tugged off his neck cloth and kissed his bare chest, his heart slammed to an astounded stop. Then he’d stood trembling as with unashamed enjoyment, she touched him. Finally she’d laid her hand on his cock, and the pleasure threatened to immolate him.

All impulse to prolong the preliminaries into the evening vanished. He’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Amy Mowbray. Now, praise God, he was going to have her.

He drew out of that blazing kiss and stepped away to sit on the bed. Clumsy with urgency, he yanked off his boots and flung them aside. Then he stood and directed his attention to unwrapping this incomparable gift fate had given him. Quickly he unlaced the pretty rose-pink dress and let it fall to the floor. Her filmy undergarments soon followed.

When at last she was naked, he released the breath he felt he’d held all day. She’d led him such a chase, he’d never been sure of her. Even when he’d carried her upstairs. But her melting expression now told him she cast aside reluctance and offered him everything.

The compulsion to rush to the end while she was here and she was his set his blood alight, but he made himself linger to admire her. “You’re temptation personified.”

Her body was lithe and graceful, more athletic than he’d imagined in those feverish nights when he’d lain awake wanting her. Full, high breasts. Rich, female curves. Long legs.

Nervously Amy raised one hand to cover the brown curls below her pale stomach. The other hand hovered above her beaded pink nipples.

“I’ve…I’ve never been naked with a man before,” she admitted in a cracked voice. “Wilfred came to me in darkness, and we always kept our clothes on.”

How much she had to discover. How much he had to show her. “There’s no need to be shy. You’re glorious.”

Despite her pink cheeks, she tilted her chin and subjected his body to a thorough inspection. Heat sizzled through him, and his balls tightened in anticipation.

“I want to please you.”

“You do.” He ran his hand down her arm, delighting in her silky skin, and laced his fingers with hers. “You will.”

Her fingers twined around his with a swift trust that made his heart somersault. Pascal leaned in and placed his lips on hers, leashing his ravenous passion.

She responded with the sweetness so essential to her nature. Under his gentle exploration, she sighed, and the tension gradually seeped from her body. Taking exquisite care, he began to touch her, finding the places that made her tremble. His hands learned the line of her back, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the lushness of her buttocks. Deliberately he avoided her breasts and sex. His control balanced on a knife edge.

He nudged her toward the bed and broke her fall when she tumbled back onto the sheets. She was panting with excitement.

He pulled away to strip off his breeches, until he, too, was naked. When she stared at him with what looked like wonder, he blushed for the first time in twenty years.

“I’m a lucky girl.”

He gave a broken laugh. “Not as lucky as I am.”

“We’ll argue about that later.”

“Much later.” He had difficulty summoning coherent speech. The endless beat of desire was too powerful. He came down over her, sliding his hips between her spread thighs. The friction of skin on skin was delicious.

“Yes.” Readily she curved her hands over his shoulders and raised her knees, cradling him closer to where he longed to be. Her musky arousal mingled with the scent of the flowers. For the rest of his life, he’d think of this as the perfume of paradise.

When he bent to take her nipple between his lips, she jerked and cried out, digging her fingers into his back. He reached down to stroke her cleft, dipping his fingers into the hot female honey.

When she was writhing in demand against the sheets, he lifted his head to see her face. Her eyes were half shut, and a flush colored her cheeks.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured, sliding one hand up to caress his jaw. “I love what you’re doing.”

Ruthlessness tinged this kiss, then he took her other nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it again and again until she quivered and moaned. Between her legs, his hand moved more purposefully. His thumb brushed the center of her pleasure, and she released a sharp little cry.

Carefully he slid a finger into her. She tightened in swift welcome, and he gritted his teeth against spiraling arousal. How he longed to taste her there. To bring her to climax with his tongue. But his primitive, irresistible need to claim her made further delay unthinkable.