Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

She stood up straight, closed her eyes and pursed her lips, then opened her eyes again when Lord Channing burst into laughter.

“Something amuses your lordship?” she asked coldly.

It took him an exasperatingly long time to stop laughing. “You said you’ve done this before.”

“I have.”

Twice. A long, long time ago.

“Then you clearly have grounds for complaint.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I certainly do now.”

His gaze softened, and he studied her face as if he meant to paint her. The prickly, defensive back and forth faded to breathless expectancy.

She held that penetrating regard for as long as she could before she stared at the leaf-strewn ground. Her cheeks heated, and her hands twined together at her waist.

He caught her trembling hands. Even through her gloves, she felt the jolt of heat. Her gaze flew up to fasten on his face. He looked intent and unexpectedly gentle. A smile turned up one corner of his lips. “Believe me, your virtue is safe, Miss Farrar. It’s too bloody cold to take our clothes off.”

She wanted to object to his language—and to his brazen mention of undressing—but standing here holding his hands, his salty vocabulary was the last of her worries. After all, a pirate would express himself strongly. And he was wrong. Whatever the temperature of the air, she felt ready to go up in flames.

“The deal is one kiss,” she reminded him.

“If I put my arm around your waist, are you likely to take fright and run away?”

Suddenly he stood much closer. She’d never been so aware of anyone’s height and strength.

“N-no.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“I made a bargain, my lord.”

“I commend your principles, Miss Farrar.” He drew her into his body.

To her mortification, she squeaked like a frightened kitten as every sense opened to his nearness. The air smelled cold and clean, with a hint of autumn leaves. Lord Channing smelled warm and clean, with a hint of salt. Perhaps during all those years of buccaneering, the sea had soaked into his skin.

Before she could stop herself, she closed her eyes and inhaled that splendid essence. A hum of pleasure escaped her, and her backbone curved until she settled against him with the most perfect fit.

Radiant heat surrounded her. Extraordinary how agreeable it felt to stand in a man’s arms on a wintry day.

With an aplomb that melted her bones to honey, he tilted up her chin. “Prepare for boarding, Miss Farrar.”

Lord Channing’s lips skimmed across hers. Warmth trickled through her.

For a moment, he didn’t do anything alarming, and through the onslaught of sensation, she admitted this was all quite pleasant. She’d definitely survive the experience. His hold tightened, and he adjusted his stance until she was closer than ever.

Then his lips moved more purposefully, and the world lurched off its axis to go dancing among the stars.

She’d had no idea her lips were so sensitive. Every nerve in her body focused on the coaxing pressure. Not trusting her legs to hold her up, she lifted her hands to his shoulders. His soft sound of approval sizzled through her like lightning.

She drowned in heat—and yearning. This kiss made her yearn. She’d been right to fear him.

Bess gasped when he flicked his tongue against the seam of her mouth. What an odd thing to do.

He did it again, taking advantage of her parted lips. Shock turned to a rush of irresistible response. She stiffened as surprised pleasure turned to uncertainty. This was wickedly carnal and beyond those tentative experiments when she’d imagined herself in love at eighteen.

Her hands flattened on his powerful chest to push him away, but to her shame, Lord Channing was the one to bring the heady interval to a close. He stepped back and released her.