Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

She’d told him he made her feel special. When he kissed her as if the world would end if he stopped, he made her feel like a goddess. How could this be wrong?

Shyly, she buried her hands in his thick, silky hair, holding him close for more kisses. He whispered incoherent Scots words of appreciation against her lips and cheeks. The soft burr of his voice turned her bones to molten syrup. Emboldened she stroked his neck and face, feeling the prickling beginnings of his beard on his jaw. Everything he did, everything he was fascinated her.

He rolled her onto her back and surged over her. His mouth traced paths of fire over her face as she looped her hands across his powerful back. He found a spot where her shoulder curved into her neck. Kisses there made her quake, and when he bit down gently, she cried out and clawed at the fine lawn of his shirt.

He rested on one elbow and bent to take her mouth again. She met him unhesitatingly, sliding her fingers into the curls at his nape. He offered such a banquet of different, delightful textures, she hardly knew where to explore next. Somewhere at the back of her mind lurked the certainty that this glorious interval couldn’t last, that she had to wring every drop from this experience while she could.

His kiss was so overwhelming that she didn’t immediately realize that he’d flicked open the buttons descending from her collar. When air brushed her skin, she drew back to see her bodice gaping over her breasts.

“Channing?” she whispered, more in wonder than protest. She knew she should be frightened, but stronger than fear was instinctive trust.

“Rory,” he muttered, sliding a seeking hand under her shift to claim her breast. His palm was warm and confident on her flesh, and when he rolled her nipple between two fingers, heat seared her. The peak tightened with pleasure that verged on pain.

When he slid the frail covering away, his eyes flared at the sight of her bare breast. “You’re so beautiful, you take my breath away.”

Bess knew she should stop him, but the fire in his eyes held her acquiescent as he took that beaded point between his lips. When he drew on her, she caught his head in her hands, pressing him closer. Heat blasted her, and she writhed against him, begging for more. She’d never felt like this in her life.

He looked up from her breast and kissed her again. When he slowly drew her skirts up, she murmured consent. He meant sin, but right now, the greater sin was abandoning this passion before she reached its destination.

When he touched her between the legs, she bucked with shock. She greeted his fingers with a hot surge, and whimpered with excruciating need. He was so close to where she ached to feel him.

He lifted his head and regarded her with a searching expression that pierced her soul. She was beyond pretending and made no attempt to hide her impatience. She had no truck with pride or prudence. All she wanted was Rory.

“Please?” she whispered with ever

y ounce of longing in her heart. “Please don’t stop.”

For one fraught moment, desire’s clinging web held them captive. Breathlessly she waited for him to proceed, to initiate her into this ultimate mystery. His hands were hard on her hips. His body was big and powerful above hers. His face reflected her unbearable hunger.

Then in the space of a heartbeat, his expression closed and he turned into a stranger. Behind his eyes, shutters slammed down upon all that heat and desire and need.

“Rory?” she asked shakily, cupping his jaw with an unsteady hand. Briefly, he remained motionless under her touch, and she wondered if she’d mistaken his withdrawal. Then he angled his head away and shifted until his body no longer touched hers.

Ice encased her soul as he reached across and tugged her shift over her breast. “Bess, this can’t be. I’m sorry.”

***

As the beautiful unrestrained ardor in Bess’s face faded to hurt bewilderment, Rory’s heart cramped into a hard nut of regret. Regret was a sour taste in his mouth, too, when only seconds ago, all he could taste was Bess Farrar.

“Why did you stop?” she asked, her face pale where before she’d been flushed with pleasure.

Knowing he couldn’t trust himself so close to temptation, he rolled off the bed and stood up. “I had to.”

She pushed into a sitting position. Temper replaced the devastation in her eyes. “Is that so?”

“Aye.” He backed away until his legs hit a chair. He collapsed onto it. Frankly, he wasn’t feeling too steady. “I shouldn’t have let everything get so far.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” she bit out.

Shaking fingers making a mull of the mundane action, she buttoned her bodice. But it was too late. The memory of her breast under his hand would haunt him until he died. He sucked in a jagged breath and battled for composure. And wished this damned hut was the size of Blenheim Palace. Bess remained dangerously within reach, and his honor barely clung by its fingertips.

Rory bowed his head and stared unseeingly at the rough timber floor. Looking at her hurt him.

How he cursed his inconvenient conscience, but he couldn’t argue with its conclusions. Every principle he had recoiled at giving Bess Farrar her first sexual experience in a shabby hut with no promises exchanged.

He’d sinned before. Of course he had. But ruining this shining girl was a sin far beyond any he’d committed in his turbulent, swashbuckling life.

When he’d looked down into her lovely face, he’d read unconditional surrender. Once, he’d thought that was what he wanted from her. But it turned out he wasn’t nearly as selfish as he’d believed. Caught up in her first taste of passion, she lost all sight of her welfare.