“I…” She gazed down, as though debating, walnut hair now swathing her shoulders. “That has to be both the strangest and most enchanting idea I’ve ever heard.” She nibbled her lip. “Feathered Thorn,” she whispered huskily, “one of my favourites.”
Her voice cast a wild shiver through him. He ought to be rendering comfort and reassurance, but still she straddled his thighs, breasts so very near, emerald choker demanding his teeth, silken skin teasing with almond scent.
This overwhelming arousal didn’t give a damn for her scars. It yearned for Tamsyn alone, the whole woman with all her beauty and all her flaws. His mind conjured wicked images of lovers entwined in the cool twilight, her flame bright, gasping his name as he made her his.
She shifted, thighs grazing, breasts lifting with every shallow breath and his fists clenched. Torment.
“Tamsyn.” His voice was hoarse. “We need to mov–”
“Kiss me.”
Jack tensed, closed his eyes to the temptation before him – entreating lips and flowing wild hair. He’d solely to lift a hand. To touch. To take. “Tam, I can’t.”
“Oh, I understand. Of course.” Her voice broke on a sob, and he cracked open an eye to see her fingers scrabbling with the buttons, covering her misery beneath his gaze.
No, she hadn’t understood at all.
And there was only one way she would. Words could never be enough.
Grabbing hold of her trembling hand, he yanked it to his chest, to his thundering heart.
Her eyes widened.
But it felt so perfect.
Lower, he laced their fingers, firmly trailing her palm over his silk-clad ribcage, down over his flat stomach.
She bit her lip.
But it felt so divine.
Shuddering, he continued until her small hand skittered over the band of his pantaloons, and then enveloped his blatant arousal. He pressed. Groaned.
She gasped.
Indeed.
Despite her tanned complexion, a blush swept her cheeks as she gawked, hand lightly clenching. He groaned anew, hips thrusting instinctively.
“Do you now understand why I cannot kiss you, Tamsyn Penrose? It is because I want you, all of you. I ache with sinful hunger.” He gritted his teeth. “But I also care for you and I will not take your innocence.”
“I only asked for a kiss,” she whispered.
He laughed wryly. “And I only have so much control. You are sitting astride me, my mouth inches from your breasts. It would take so little, Tamsyn. To lick your skin. To push your skirts aside, to undo my breeches, wrench you forward, to…”
Her breathing shallowed and putting action to those words was all that consumed him.
But brave Tamsyn deserved more. A husband. A man with principles and honour. Not a Winterbourne rogue who’d break her heart.
And so, with every vein of his body screaming its dissent, he removed her hand.
Sensing her eyes upon him, he tugged the gown to her shoulders, ignored the swell of her breasts, the silk of her throat.
He cursed as the fingers of a so-called urbane seducer shook like an unlicked cub’s, but one by one the buttons slipped into place.
Right up to the neck.
Palms to the side of his face took him by surprise. The kiss even more so. Innocent and sensual. Gentle and strong. Tamsyn.
