He laughed. “Wait until you taste this.” He held a small china bowl containing what appeared to be a combination of custard and thin layers of cake, decorated with a drizzle of chopped nuts and a golden syrup. Obviously a dessert, but one unfamiliar to her. Scooping up a spoonful of the concoction, he held the spoon to her lips. The delicate scents of honey and cinnamon teased her, urging her to eat the offering, but she hesitated, her earlier tension rushing back at the intimacy of his gesture. It was one thing to share a meal with him. It was quite another for him to feed her.
“Try it, Meredith,” he said softly. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
She parted her lips, and he fed her the morsel, then slowly slipped the spoon from between her lips. A heady combination of tastes and textures delighted her mouth— silky-smooth custard, spongy cake, crunchy nuts, sweet honey, the tang of cinnamon. Her gaze locked to his, she slowly chewed, then swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden racing of her heart. The heated awareness of him that she’d managed to push aside roared back to life, inching tingling warmth up her spine.
To her dismay—and utter fascination—he leaned back, reclining onto his side on the pile of pillows, his upper body propped up on his left elbow and forearm. Her gaze involuntarily wandered down his length, taking in his tanned throat, the enticing expanse of his broad chest, his long, outstretched muscular legs.
“Do you like it?” he asked in a husky voice.
She jerked her gaze back to his and found him studying her with deep concentration. Like it? More than anything I’ve ever seen before. She glanced down at the china bowl cradled in his left hand and fire raced into her cheeks. Heavens, he’d meant the dessert.
“It’s, um, delicious.” When he dipped the spoon into the bowl again, she asked, “Are you going to have some?”
“I’d love some.” Sitting up, he handed her the bowl and spoon, then scooted around to face her, moving closer until their knees bumped.
A tingle shot up her leg, and she stared at the bowl and spoon she now held. His meaning was unmistakable. Everything cautious in her warned her to set the food back on the table and leave. Everything feminine and curious in her wanted to know what it was like to feed a man. This man.
Heart beating hard, she scooped up a bit of the creamy dessert and brought the spoon to his lips. Fascinated, she fed him the bite, withdrawing the spoon slowly from his mouth as he’d done to her. She watched him chew. Dear God, the man had a beautiful mouth. She instantly recalled the thrilling sensation of that firm, sensual mouth brushing against her lips and skin.
Reaching out, he brushed a single fingertip against her lower lip. “A drop of custard,” he murmured. He then brought his finger to his own mouth and licked off the creamy dollop.
She felt as if he’d tossed her into the fire. Before she could think of what to say or do, he gently took the bowl and spoon from her, setting them back on the table. He then picked up an oval ceramic platter filled with an assortment of cut fruits, olives, and shelled nuts.
Setting the platter next to him, he picked up a small piece of fruit. “This is a fig, very popular with the Greeks since ancient times. Taste.” He reached out with the offering, but when she held out her hand, he shook his head and brought the fruit closer to her lips. “It is customary for a guest to eat a handheld offering from the host—if the guest enjoyed the meal. It symbolizes a harmonious end to the dinner.”
“I see.” She tried to tell herself that she would eat from his fingers solely so as not to flout ancient custom and offend him, but it was such a blatant lie she banished the excuse as quickly as it formed. Ancient custom had nothing to do with it as she leaned forward and ate the bit of fig from his fingers. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that the fruit was sweet and luscious, but all she could concentrate on was the sensation of his fingers touching her lips.
“The guest may return the favor to the host, if she wishes,” he said, “to indicate that she found the company pleasing.”
Dear God, she found him so much more than merely pleasing. Tempting. Tantalizing. Exciting. Unable to refuse, she reached out and picked up a small section of peeled orange, which she then held out. His gaze steady on hers, he lightly grasped her wrist and pulled her hand closer to his mouth. He drew the sweet citrus and her two fingers between his lips. She gasped as the warmth of his mouth surrounded her fingertips, his tongue brushing over them. Her own lips involuntarily parted in response, and her breath caught. He withdrew her fingers, then dropped a kiss on them.
He chewed, swallowed, then said, “Delicious.” He then picked up a plump, dark olive, the pit clearly removed. “After the sweet fruit, the host offers something salty—to show that he holds his guest in the highest regard.”
As if in a trance, Meredith watched him bring the olive to her mouth, her heart skipping a beat when he slowly ran the offering around the perimeter of her parted lips before allowing her to eat it. The salty tang slid over her tongue, a sharp contrast to the sweet fig.
“The guest may offer the same to the host. If she wishes,” he said, his brown gaze searching hers.
Just as she couldn’t deny she found his company pleasing, nor could she deny she held him in the highest regard. Of course, to do something that admitted that—openly, and to him—was more than a bit frightening. And most certainly unwise.
Yet she could not stop herself from picking up an olive and offering it to him. His eyes darkened behind his lenses, and a tremor shook her hand. Again he lightly clasped her wrist and drew her hand closer to him, gently sucking the olive and her fingers into the heat of his mouth.
The desire she’d attempted to bludgeon back gushed through her, bubbling in her veins, quickening her pulse. She wanted his mouth on hers. So badly her lips tingled.
“And last,” he said, “to finish the meal, is this.” From the center of the platter he picked up an object about the size of an orange, but it was a deep purplish red in color.
“What is that?”
“A pomegranate.”
She looked at it with interest. “I’ve never seen one, although I’ve heard of it.”
“It is called the Fruit of Paradise, and throughout history it has been cited in the myths and legends of many different cultures and civilizations, as well as in art and literature.”
“Actually, I first heard mention of one in Romeo and Juliet,” she said. “A lark’s song tells Romeo that morning has come and he must leave his love. But Juliet tells him, ‘Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree; believe me, love, it was the nightingale. ’”
“Yes, I recall that passage. She assured him it was the nightingale rather than the lark... because she did not want him to leave. You enjoy Shakespeare?”
Speak. Talk. Say something, anything to dispel this unbearable tension. “Yes. And Romeo and Juliet is my favorite. I’ve always loved losing myself in a book, shutting out everything else and being immersed in a story that transported me to another time and place....” Her voice trailed off as an image of herself at age twelve flashed in her mind. Someone had left a book at the house, and she’d found it. Romeo and Juliet. She’d immediately added it to her precious hoard of reading material. That night, as she had so many other nights, she’d hidden in the cupboard under the stairs and read by candlelight, this time whisked back in time to Verona and the heartbreaking love that would never be. The beautiful words drown out the noises she did not want to hear, allowing her to escape, for a few hours, all that from which she so desperately longed to escape.
“Meredith... are you all right?”
His softly spoken question yanked her back to the present. She blinked to dispel the lingering cobwebs of the past. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“You looked very sad.”
She forced a smile. “Romeo and Juliet is a sad story.” Not wishing to dwell on stories of impossible love, she asked, “How do you eat a pomegranate? Like an apple?”
“No. You cut it open and eat the seeds.” Still holding the fr
uit, he handed her a small china bowl filled with tiny, red, pearl-like seeds. “The inside is filled with such an abundance of these seeds, the pomegranate has long been a symbol of fertility, bounty, and eternal life. Ancient Egyptians were buried with pomegranates in the hope of rebirth.” Reaching into the bowl, he withdrew one seed. It looked like a miniature red teardrop resting on his fingertip. He brought it to her lips. “There’s a tiny seed within this kernel that is edible. Taste.”
After a brief hesitation, she accepted the offering, her lips brushing against his fingertip like a kiss. His eyes darkened, and he dragged his finger over her bottom Up as he moved his hand away. Lips tingling, Meredith gently bit down on the seed. A tiny burst of flavorful juice touched her tongue, and her eyes widened.
“Deceptive, is it not?” he asked with a smile.
“Indeed. I didn’t expect something so small to contain so much flavor. It’s tart and sweet at the same time.”
He held out another seed for her on his fingertip. “Do you like it, Meredith?”
Her name, said in that husky, deep voice, touched her like a caress. The question in itself was simple enough, but by the heat simmering in his gaze, there was no mistaking that he was asking if she liked more than the taste of the fruit. He wanted to know if she liked being with him like this, being fed by him, feeding him. Touching her fingers to his lips, tasting his fingers against her mouth. As much as she wished it otherwise, there was only one answer—to all those questions.
But should she admit it? She could pretend to misunderstand the deeper meaning behind his question. She should pretend. Yet the air of intimacy surrounding them, the opulent décor, the delicious food and wine, the personal, vulnerable details of his life he’d shared with her, the desire all but emanating from him, all served to cast a hypnotic spell upon her that blurred the lines of what she should and should not do... of what was wise and unwise. Yes, she should pretend. But she could not.
“Yes, Philip. I like it.”
His eyes darkened further at her whispered reply.
Without a word, he took the china bowl from her, setting it and the pomegranate back on the platter. He then rose.
Before she could shove aside her disappointment and search for the relief she should have felt at this obvious signal that their meal was over, he stepped around her, then lowered himself to sit on her pillow, directly behind her.
“Straighten out your legs, Meredith.” His soft request brushed by her ear, shooting a shiver of pleasure down her spine.
She did as he bade, then sat ramrod-stiff, afraid to further move lest she encourage—or discourage—him. Behind her, he adjusted his position, shifting closer, and stretching out his long legs on either side of hers. The inner part of his legs touched the outer part of hers, from her hips downward, while his chest brushed her back. A shiver raced down her spine, raising goose bumps on her flesh, inexplicable, as she was not in the least bit cold. Indeed, she’d never felt less chilled in her entire life. She felt surrounded by him, the heat of his body enveloping her as if he’d wrapped her in a warm, velvety quilt.
“After the meal,” he said, the words tickling over the back of her neck, “relaxation is essential.” He began rubbing her shoulders with a gentle yet firm kneading motion that shot delight through her. “You’re very tense, Meredith. Relax.”
Relax? With him touching her? Yet even as she thought it impossible to do so, she suddenly found she could not maintain her stiff posture against the muscle-weakening magic his strong hands wrought upon her.
“Much better,” he said. “This is how a silk-clad princess was pampered... fed upon pillows, then stroked until her body released all its tension.” His fingers slowly worked their way up her neck, then started to gently slip the pins from her hair. She lifted her head, her mind trying to summon a protest, but her lips refused to voice the words. Released from the confines of the pins, her hair fell about her shoulders and down her back.
“Seeing you like this, surrounded by silks and satins, your hair falling down, you could be Queen Nefertiti herself.” The words whispered against her nape, his lips and warm breath caressing the vulnerable skin there. A desire-filled shudder vibrated down her spine.
“Do you know what ‘Nefertiti’ means, Meredith?”
Incapable of speech, she shook her head.
“It means ‘the beautiful woman has come.’ Ancient Egyptians celebrated such feminine charms in lyrics they composed to the objects of their affections. I translated several such lyrics I discovered during my travels. One was particularly lovely. Would you like to hear it?”
Again, she merely nodded. She felt him lean closer, his chest pressing against her back. Her eyes slid closed, absorbing the sensation. Soaking in the pleasure. With his lips hovering a hairbreadth from her ear, he whispered:
She looks like the rising morning star.
At the start of a happy year,
Shining bright, fair of skin,
Lovely the look of her eyes,
Sweet the speech of her lips...
With graceful step she treads the ground,
Captures my heart by her movements,
She causes all men’s necks
To turn about to see her;
Joy has he whom she embraces,
He is like the first of men.
His arms came about her waist, drawing her back against his chest, his warm lips nuzzling the side of her neck. “Meredith.” He breathed her name so softly. Kissed her neck so gently. Desire and passion coursed through her veins, awakening needs and longings she’d fought so hard to suppress. Arousing her unbearably, yet confusing her. How was he able to make her feel this way by barely touching her? Everything she’d ever witnessed, seen, and heard had led her to believe that what occurred in the dark between men and women involved rough, groping hands and coarse language. She knew she could resist that.
But this soft caressing, this aching tenderness, shattered her defenses, rendering her unable to resist the seductive lure his gentle voice and hands promised. With a low moan of surrender, she leaned back against him and tilted her head to give his wandering lips easier access to her throat.
He pushed aside the hair from her neck and traced his tongue over her sensitive skin. A shudder ran through her, and she squirmed in a helpless effort to relieve the sweet, heavy ache between her legs. Her movements brushed her buttocks against his hard arousal, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Just one more touch... just one more kiss... then I’ll stop him....
Philip heard her moan, felt the gentle vibration against his lips. His control was vanishing at an alarming rate, but even as he recognized that fact, he seemed unable to rein in his desires. He’d arranged this evening to court her, not to seduce her. But now that she was this close, ensnaring all his senses, need ripped through him. Just one more touch... just one more kiss. Then I’ll stop.
He slipped off her lace fichu, exposing more of her creamy, fragrant skin to his hands and lips. He kissed the gentle slope of her shoulder while his hands glided down her throat, then lower, to cup her full breasts through her soft gown.
“Philip.” His name whispered past her parted lips in a smoky sigh of need, igniting him as if she’d set a match to dry kindling. And the battle Philip had been waging against the demands of his body was lost.
With a growl, he shifted her in his embrace enough so that their lips could meet—in a kiss he’d meant to be gentle, but instantly turned hot and demanding. He slipped one hand into her bodice, palming her bare breast. While his tongue explored the sweet-tart silkiness of her mouth, his fingers explored the lush softness of her breast, the pebble-hard arousal of her nipple. He drank in her soft gasp, and all semblance of time and place faded away, replaced by an aching, white-hot need. More. He wanted, needed, more.
With a groan that bordered on pain, he broke off their kiss, taking grim satisfaction in her similar groan of protest. He impatiently yanked off his fogged-up spectacles and tossed them onto the table, then shifted h
er again, until she reclined across his lap. Breathing hard, he looked down at her, lying in his arms. He reached out and touched a single fingertip to the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, absorbing the frantic beat of her pulse. “Do you have any idea how lovely you are? How exquisite you feel in my arms? How profoundly you affect me?”
He caught her hand and pressed her palm against his chest at the spot where his heartbeat pounded as if he’d run across the desert. “That is what you do to me, Meredith. Every time I see you. Think of you. Touch you.” Unfastening several buttons on his shirt, he slipped her hand into the opening, then moved her palm across his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut against the acute pleasure of her skin against his. “Touch me.”
After a tiny hesitation, she splayed her fingers, then slowly dragged her hand over his skin, her fingertips brushing his nipples. A need-filled shudder shook him. Fighting the overwhelming urge to simply devour her, he lowered his mouth to hers and ran his tongue over her plump bottom lip. She returned the favor, and their kiss melded into a long, sensual, deep mating of lips and tongues.
He shifted their position again, easing her back until she lay fully reclined on the fluffy pillows, angling himself on his side next to her. Leaving the temptation of her delicious mouth, he trailed kisses across her jaw, down her throat, then brushed his tongue over the swells of her breasts. With an unsteady hand he eased down her bodice, exposing plump, pale breasts topped with aroused, coral-hued nipples.
He licked slow circles around her nipple, laving the bud before drawing it into his mouth. A long, sultry ooohhhh escaped her, and she tunneled her fingers through his hair, arching up, an offering he took immediate advantage of. Yet it still wasn’t enough.
Need pulsing through him, coherent thought lost in a fog of want, his hand skimmed down her rib cage, over her abdomen, then along the length of her thigh and calf. Capturing the soft muslin of her gown between his fingers, he slowly dragged the material upward. Slipping his hand beneath her gown, he stroked his palm up her leg.
WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN? Page 25
