The Historical Collection 2018. Candace CampЧитать онлайн книгу.
wanted to feel his touch again, quite desperately. Not only his touch, but his tenderness. He might be snappish and aggravating during the day, but in the darkness last night, he’d seemed an entirely different man. Patient, respectful. Sensual.
This time, Emma resolved, she wouldn’t ruin it. The sooner this reproduction effort was under way, the better for all concerned.
At last, a knock at the door.
He entered without waiting for her answer.
“Tonight, this will be all business,” he announced. “In. Out. Done.”
Possibly the least seductive words imaginable, but Emma was apparently a madwoman, because they excited her all the same.
He did not bank the fire completely, leaving a bit of warmth and a faint amber glow. With less stumbling than last time, he joined her on the bed. He found the edge of the quilts—she’d limited herself to two tonight—and flung them back in one motion before stretching his body alongside hers. She held her breath, waiting for the first brush of exquisite contact.
“Good God,” he said. “You’re naked.”
Well, this wasn’t off to the most promising start.
“Why would you be naked?”
Had she heard him correctly? Had he truly just asked why she would be naked? How could this even be a question?
“I didn’t disrobe last night only because I thought you might want to undress me.”
He was silent.
“Shall I undress you?” she asked.
“No.” And then, with a tone of resignation, “Let’s just get on with it.”
Oh, now that was too much to be borne. She couldn’t remain silent any longer.
She pushed up on her elbow. “What am I doing wrong? Surely your previous lovers were active participants in the act.”
“Yes, but they were experienced. A few of them professionals. You’re a wife. You’re not supposed to enjoy this, you’re supposed to lie there and endure it.”
“So that’s what you expect from me. A silent, listless partner.”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” she said, disheartened. “I’ll try.”
His hand settled on her thigh, and he nudged her legs apart with a brusque motion.
Then he paused, keeping his hand utterly still.
When he resumed touching her, everything was different.
Despite his stated resolve to be quick, and his professed displeasure at finding her naked, he seemed to have changed his mind about making this a hasty, dispassionate encounter. In fact, his entire demeanor transformed. Once again, his brusque touch became a caress. As he explored her body, he made quiet, growly sounds of approval that thrilled her to her toes.
His palm covered her breast. Racked by pleasure, she bit her lip to stifle a soft cry of joy. He kneaded and stroked the soft flesh, switching from one breast to the other and back again. Her nipples puckered, begging for attention. The lazy, teasing back-and-forth of his thumb was the sharpest, sweetest pleasure—but it wasn’t enough.
Her breath quickened. She wanted him to hurry, but he took his time. His palms skimmed along her every dip and curve, painting her body hot with desire.
Most arousing of all, he began to speak.
“How is it you’re here?” he murmured. Not to her, but seemingly to himself. “How the devil did I manage it?” He wove his fingers into her hair and pulled away gently, letting the locks glide through his fingers. He exhaled on a single, stirring word. “Lovely.”
She reached for him, longing to touch and explore in return. She placed her hands flat against his chest, skimming over the thin lawn of his shirt.
He stiffened. “Don’t.”
She let her hands fall to her sides. “I—I’m sorry, I—”
Emma didn’t know what to say. That brief, stolen caress was burned into her palms. In one of her hands, she balanced a memory of strong, sleek muscle beneath ironed-flat linen. On her other palm, however, a different sensation lingered. The firm ridges of scar tissue, stretching and tugging across his chest like a fiendish spider’s web.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
He turned aside, and Emma despaired. Had she discouraged him from continuing? Again?
Instead, he reached for a small vial of some kind. She heard the sound of it being uncorked. An exotic scent wafted in her direction, and she glimpsed him pouring a few drops into his hand. Some sort of oil, perhaps?
Her guess about the substance was proven correct. His fingers slicked over her sex without friction, stroking up and down her intimate folds. The sensations were as impossible to catch as running water, and they made her just as wet.
By the time he settled between her thighs, she was desperate for him, awash with a deep, sweet ache that she somehow knew only he could satisfy. She knew what it was to bring about her own pleasure, but she’d never been able to fill that hollowness. Not on her own.
The rigid column of his manhood connected with her belly, sliding downward on the thin sheen of oil. The feeling of his steely hardness against her aroused sex . . . it nearly undid her, there and then. She whimpered with frustrated desire, rolling her hips to seek more contact.
He froze again.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, breathless. “Please. I’m fine. I promise. I’m very, very, very fine.”
He hushed her. “Don’t make a move.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not alone.”
Ash found himself staring into a pair of firelit eyes, glittering at him from the corner of the room. The base of his spine tingled. His heartbeat went from a gallop to a standstill.
An intruder.
How the devil had someone slipped in?
Never mind, he told himself. That question could wait. The more pressing inquiry at hand was this: How was he going to kill the bastard? He mentally ran through the available weapons in the room. The fireplace poker would be most effective, but it was out of reach. The sash of his dressing gown could make a decent garrote, in a pinch.
If needed, he’d fight hand-to-hand. His only concern was keeping Emma safe.
He rolled to the side and came to his knees, putting his body between her and the threat. “You have three seconds to leave the way you came,” he ordered. “Or I vow to you, I will snap your knavish neck.”
The intruder struck first, leaping forward with a fiendish yowl.
Something that felt like a dozen razor-sharp barbs pierced straight through his nightshirt, digging into his shoulder and arm. He gave a stunned shout of pain.
Emma flung back the bedclothes. “Breeches! Breeches, no!”
The cat?
Claws. Teeth. Hissing.
The cat.
Ash stumbled from the bed and whirled in a backward circle, whipping his arm to shake off the beast, all while guarding his breeding organs with the other hand. He could afford to lose a lot of bits, but not those.
From the bed, Emma shouted and pleaded with the hellish creature, to no avail. She heaved a pillow, which hit Ash in the face and did nothing to dislodge