The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 2)

One that temporarily distracted her.

But as the heat from his body sank through her skin, she was suddenly certain she had on far too many clothes.

Luckily, her hands and arms were free. Too caught by the fire in the kiss to draw back, she wriggled and squirmed while she released the tiny buttons and the hooks and eyes that ran down her side.

Then she planted her palms on his chest and, reluctantly pulling her lips from his, panting, flushed, and very ready to get on, she pushed back and sat up, straddling his hips, and tugged and pulled and hauled her gown and petticoats off over her head.

She flung the yards of fabric away, hearing them fall with a sibilant swoosh to the floor.

But her gaze had fixed on Kit’s face. On all she could see washing behind his wide eyes, coloring his faintly stunned expression. Hunger, need, and yearning. She could see those and more in his caramel eyes.

Holding his gaze, she set her quick fingers to the front closure of her light corset. Within seconds, his gaze had fallen to her digits. With precise movements, she slid the hooks free. The corset gaped, then released; she caught it and flung it after her gown as every muscle in the large body beneath her locked tight.

She was still sheathed in her fine silk chemise, the translucent fabric a subtle screen against which her breasts proudly jutted, nipples peaked and rosy. His hot, hungry gaze raced over her, yet his jaw clenched tightly, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his hands, which had fallen to his sides, fist.

Playing to the molten passion she could sense rising in him, barely held back by his will, reaching for the passionate tide she wanted nothing more than to call forth and bathe in, she raised the fingers of one hand to the ribbon closing the neckline of her chemise. His eyes locked on her fingers; she played with the ends of the ribbon for an instant, then gripped and tugged—and the bow unraveled.

He swallowed, his throat working.

She smiled, grasped the chemise’s gathered neck in both hands, with a swift jerk, widened the neckline, then drew the whisper-soft garment off over her head.

He uttered another growly sound as she sent the chemise to join her corset.

Abruptly, he sat up, simultaneously gripping her hips between his large hands and shifting her back so she ended straddling his hard thighs.

Then his head swooped, and his lips crushed hers, and his hands were on her.

Hard, hot palms stroking and caressing.

Long artful fingers tracing, then possessing.

She lost her breath to him, to the kiss, to the fire he laced over her skin.

Her world spun, and she tipped her head back on a gasp as, with his clever fingers and his even cleverer lips and tongue, he paid homage to her breasts—until they ached almost painfully and molten heat pooled low in her belly.

Suddenly, she needed to feel him against her; nothing else would assuage the maddening ache that seemed to rise from her bones.

She caught his coat and tugged. When he didn’t immediately respond, she found his lips with hers again, then nipped the lower. When he pull

ed back, blinking, their eyes mere inches apart, she panted, “Coat, waistcoat, shirt—get them off!”

He blinked again, but she was already wrestling with his coat. As if dazed, he complied, shrugging the garment off and tossing it to the floor. By then, she’d dispensed with his cravat and was pushing his waistcoat and bundled-up shirt off his shoulders.

He made a frustrated sound and complied, dragging his arms from the sleeves, then having to pause and open the cuffs before flinging both shirt and waistcoat away.

Then he spread his arms wide. “There. Satisfied?”

She smiled delightedly, flung herself against him, certain he would catch her, and hauled his lips to hers as she exulted, “Yes, yes, yes!”

His arms wrapping around her, he fell back beneath her onslaught.

Hostage to impulses and a driving need she’d never before known, she plundered his mouth, then turned her attention to the long, strong column of his throat, nipping and tasting as she worked her way down, sensing from the way his hands stroked over the skin of her naked back that he rather liked her attentions.

She smiled against his skin and took her kisses lower. To the wide muscles banding his chest, to the discs of his nipples that hid beneath the crisply curling hair.

His hands were busy, stroking over her back, learning the planes and contours. She had to pause, shuddering, when his thumbs cruised the sensitive sides of her breasts, and he chuckled deep and low.

The sound skittered over her nerves; anticipation lit and smoldered, even as she lowered her lips once more to his skin.