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“Talk to me, Arabella,” he urged. “Tell me what you would like.”
When finally she spoke, her soft words flickered between them like a flame.
“I would like to be touched.”
Chapter 20
Arabella had no idea what to do next, but Guy seemed to know.
Without another word, he led her to the hearth, where he stoked up the fire, then he slipped off his banyan and spread it over the carpet.
“That’s silk and velvet,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “The rug might burn your skin.”
He is taking care of me, she thought, and let him strip off her clothes. He took his time, slowly releasing buttons, sensuously sliding the fabric off her limbs, skimming his fingers over her with taunting carelessness.
Those fingers stilled at her side. “What the devil happened to you here?”
She froze, belatedly remembering the tea-colored bruise. The marks on her arms were faint yellow smudges, invisible in the firelight.
“A horse,” she said. “It’s nothing. Don’t stop.”
He tugged her to her knees and knelt behind her, bracketing her hips, his scent engulfing her. Arabella fixed her gaze on the flames, every inch of her suddenly sensitive to the air on her skin, the heavy silk of her hair caressing her bare back. She had never given her hair much thought before, but now it was the center of her world. No—hewas, burying his hands in it, lifting its weight, letting it tumble back down like a waterfall.
“It’s marvelous the way you aren’t shy,” he murmured.
“Oh. I suppose I ought to be.”
“You ought to be exactly as you are.”
As he draped her hair over her shoulders and breasts, his hands brushed her nipples and his lips nibbled her neck. Her body roared to sensual life, demanding to be touched, demanding more of these hot sensations swirling inside. Her hands floated in front of her, useless and awkward because he was behind her and she was meant to— What?
“I don’t know what to do,” she cried, in a voice unlike her own.
Guy’s hands landed on her bare shoulders, warm and strong, with that luxurious roughness. Slowly, he trailed his palms down her arms, to her wrists, to her hands. He laced his fingers with hers.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured, his breath caressing her temple with erotic promise. “You only have to feel. Feel everything I do, feel the way I touch you, feel the way your body responds to my touch.”
She closed her eyes, yielded to sensation. This was what she felt: his linen shirt teasing her, his warmth enveloping her, his lips against her ear, goosebumps rippling over her skin. The heat from the fire, the silk of the banyan, the peace in his arms, the fury of her lust.
“Feel everything,” he continued. “And if that splendid brain of yours starts thinking, ignore it and feel the sensations. That’s all you need to do. Just feel. Let yourself feel, and you cannot get this wrong.”
He freed his fingers and dragged them back up her thighs, over her hips. He must have leaned away from her, for cold air washed between them, and with the next pulse of her exasperated quim, she was arching, thrills racing through her, as his fingers burned a path up her spine.
“When I touch you,” he said, hypnotic and heavy, “I imagine leaving a trail of stars, all the colors in the world, exploding from my touch, like a thousand fireworks flying up from your skin.”
As he spoke, his fingertips roamed over her, sparking sensations, sparking light. She saw her own back through the dance of his fingers, saw his touch as fire and color and beauty, orange and blue and pink and green. Then all that color and light and heat were deep inside her too, swirling and rising, thousands of sparks igniting within, so her blood became a sizzling, colorful river of stars.
Those hands of his mapped her, like he was discovering her, remembering her. Skating down her back, shaping her waist, gliding over her hips and up her belly to cup her breasts and pinch her nipples and toss her hair.
Somehow she was lying down—she did not know when that happened—and his mouth joined the dance, his burning kisses sliding over her, those hands roving wildly, now fast, now slow, now firm, now soft, so much to feel that her mind could not keep up. He was everywhere: a callused hand on her shoulder, hot tongue at her navel, fingers whirling over her buttocks and her thighs, until she forgot about mouths and hands and thighs, until there was only sensation. Delicious, intense sensations tossing her about like a ship in a storm, the air alive with the crackle of the fire and the sounds from her throat, and his sounds too, soft growls and sighs.
Everywhere he touched her—but no, not everywhere! What was he doing, not touching her quim, when it was throbbing so hard it must make the house shake? He laughed and she grabbed him, but she caught only linen. Furiously, she yanked at his hateful shirt, and he bowed and shifted so it came off in her hands. She tossed it aside— What use was a shirt with no man inside? Again she tried to wrestle him, her hands frantic on his scorching skin, but one strong leg pinned her down. Again his palms roved over her stomach. Why on earth was he touching her stomach when she had more worthy places to touch?
A growl sounded in her throat. She met his eyes, green and glazed. The scoundrel was enjoying himself far too much.
“Something wrong?” he murmured.
“Curse you,” she hissed. “You’re not doing it right.”
