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Oh, she wanted more of him! Daring much, she pressed her lips against the strong column of his throat, reveled in the heat of him, the masculine taste of him. “Bartholomew, I—”
But he stopped her words with another set of kisses. He caressed a hand up and down her spine, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. The other he slipped to her neck, along her shoulder, down her side, and at the curve of her breast, he cupped it, held it, and finally brushed the pad of his thumb over the nipple until it tightened, ached to be touched more fully.
Her moan sounded overly loud in the silence of the room, and Bartholomew continued his conquest of her mouth, but he didn’t push for a more carnal embrace. Clasped as close to him as she was, the hard evidence of his desire pressed insistently against her belly. Oh, how that part of him captivated her imagination! But she didn’t dare attempt to touch him there. She couldn’t. This man wasn’t hers, even if he did kiss her as if she belonged to him.
Eventually, he left off, only because her knees threatened to buckle, and she slumped against him. An amused grin tipped up the corners of his mouth, yet he stared at her with surprise and shock filtering through his darkened eyes. “I should probably be the gentleman and tell you to retire upstairs lest I do even more scandalous and wicked things beyond kissing you.” His voice was as breathless as hers felt.
“Is that an entirely bad thing, Captain?” Would she ever have another opportunity to experience just that?
His laugh was ragged around the edges. “I’m not sure, which makes your presence here tempting and all too dangerous. However, I have one question. How do you feel about me now?”
“I… I’m not certain…” It was confusing, being put on the spot like this, with heat burning in her cheeks and need throbbing through her body for something she didn’t fully understand.
“It’s enough.” With a fleeting kiss to her forehead, he released her fully. “Go, Felicity, and I hope your dreams are sweet. I’ll have a surprise for you tomorrow evening if all goes well.”
She nodded, too speechless to continue the conversation. “Goodnight, Bartholomew,” she managed to whisper before fleeing the room. His kisses, his kindness, his words, his touch made her feel protected and cherished, hopeful, and bewildered all at once.
What did it mean?
Dear God, if there is any truth that everything hoped for in faith might materialize on Christmas Eve, please let Bartholomew look at me as a woman worthy of standing at his side, for I’ve stupidly fallen in love with him.
