by Lisa Kleypas
Holding her gaze, he reached for the gray silk cravat around his neck, tugged it loose, and unwound it slowly, as if fearing any sudden move might frighten her. While she watched with wide eyes, he undid the first three buttons of his shirt, then leaned back and studied her flushed face.
In her childhood, Amanda had occasionally glimpsed her father’s grizzled upper chest as he walked through the house in his dressing robe, and of course she had seen laborers and farming men with their shirts unbuttoned. However, she could never recall having seen anything like this, a man whose chest seemed to have been sculpted from bronze, the muscles so defined and heavy that they literally gleamed. His flesh looked hard and yet so warm, the firelight dancing over the smoothness, shadows settling in the indentations of muscle and the triangular hollow at the base of his throat.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to put her mouth on that intriguing hollow, and draw in more of his tantalizing scent.
“Come here, Amanda.” His voice was a low scrape of sound.
“Oh, I can’t,” she said unsteadily. “I—I think you should go now.”
Jack leaned forward and caught her wrist gently in his fingers. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered. “I won’t do anything that you don’t like. But before I leave you this evening, I’m going to hold you in my arms.”
Confusion and desire swirled inside her, making her feel unanchored, helpless. She let him pull her forward until her short limbs rested stiffly against his much longer ones. He ran a large palm down her back, and she could feel a trail of sensation in its wake. His skin was hot, as if a fire burned right beneath the smooth golden surface.
Her breath shortened, and she closed her eyes, shivering, luxuriating in the feeling of being warm all the way down to her bones. For the first time in her life, she let her head fall into the waiting crook of a man’s arm, and stared up at his shadowed face.
As he felt the trembling of her limbs, he made a crooning sound and cuddled her closer. “Don’t be afraid, mhuirnin. I won’t hurt you.”
“What did you call me?” she asked in bewilderment.
He smiled down at her. “A small endearment. Did I neglect to mention that I’m half Irish?”
That explained his accent, the neat cultured tones tempered with a sort of musical softness that must be Celtic in origin. And it also explained why he had turned to Mrs. Bradshaw for employment. Often tradesmen and mercantile institutions would hire a lesser-qualified Englishman over an Irishman, preferring to give the Celts the dirtiest and most menial work.
“Do you have a distaste for the Irish?” Jack asked, staring steadily into her eyes.
“Oh, no,” she said dazedly. “I was just thinking…that must be why your hair is so black and your eyes so blue.”
“A chuisle mo chroi,” he murmured, stroking the curls back from her round face.
“What does that mean?”
“Someday I’ll tell you. Someday.” He held her for a long time until she felt steeped in his warmth, every nerve saturated and relaxed. His fingers slid to the high-buttoned neck of her brown-and-orange-striped gown, where muslin ruffles had been stitched to form a small ruff. With great care, and no particular hurry, he unfastened the first few buttons, baring her soft, cool throat. Amanda couldn’t seem to control the rhythm of her lungs as they surged in unsteady expansions, her breasts rising repeatedly. Jack’s dark head moved over her, and she made an inarticulate sound as she felt his mouth press against her throat, lips gently searching.
“You taste so sweet.” The whispered words sent a shiver down her spine. Somehow, whenever she had imagined this intimacy with a man, she had thought of darkness and urgency and groping. She had not expected firelight and heat and this patient courting of her body. Jack’s lips wandered in a velvet path from her throat to the sensitive opening of her ear, played lightly, and then Amanda jerked in surprise as she felt the tip of his tongue stroke along a tiny inner crevice.
“Jack,” she whispered. “You don’t have to play the lover for me. Truly…you are kind to pretend that I’m desirable, and you—”
She felt him smile against her ear. “You are an innocent, mhuirnin, if you think that a man’s body reacts this way out of kindness.”
As he spoke, Amanda became aware of an intimate pressure against her hip, and she immediately went still. Her face burned crimson, and thoughts flurried through her head like snowflakes in a wind-ravaged sky. She was mortified…and extremely curious. With her legs entangled in his, and her skirts riding to her knees, she could feel the powerful length of his thighs and the hard shape of his erection. She had never been held against a man’s aroused body before.
“This is your chance, Amanda,” he murmured. “I’m yours to do with as you like.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she said unsteadily. “That’s why I hired you.”
He laughed and kissed the exposed part of her throat, where her pulse thrummed in a frantic rhythm. The situation seemed fantastical to her, so completely outside of all her experiences, that she felt as if she were someone other than Amanda Briars. The spinster with her quills and paper and ink-stained fingers, and old-maid’s caps and foot-warming jars, had been replaced by someone who was soft…vulnerable…able to desire and be desired.
She realized then that she had always been a little afraid of men. Some women understood the opposite sex so easily, and yet this understanding had always eluded her. All she knew was that even in the bloom of her youth, men had never teased and flirted with her. They had talked to her about serious subjects and had treated her with respect and propriety, never suspecting that she might have liked them to make an improper advance or two.
And now here was this resplendent man, unquestionably a scoundrel, who seemed more than interested in the prospect of getting under her skirts. Why shouldn’t she allow him to kiss and caress her? What good did her virtue do her? Virtue was a cold bedfellow; she knew that better than anyone.
Bravely she caught at the open edges of his shirt and urged his head down to hers. He complied at once, his mouth brushing softly over hers. She felt a shock of warmth, a rush of pleasure that paralyzed her. His weight settled on her a bit more heavily; his mouth teased and pressed harder until her lips parted. His tongue stroked inside her mouth, and she would have recoiled from the strangeness of it had her head not been wedged so securely in the crook of his arm. Sensation flared in the pit of her stomach and in areas of her body that she couldn’t even name. She waited for him to taste her again…oh, the way he explored her mouth was odd and intimate and exciting, and she couldn’t seem to prevent the small moan that rose in her throat. Her body relaxed slowly, and her hands came up to his head, stroking the coarse black silk of his hair, the cropped locks that tapered to a point at the nape of his neck.
“Unbutton my shirt,” Jack murmured. He continued to kiss her while she fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat and the placket of his linen shirt. The thin fabric was warm and scented from his body, crumpled from where it had been tucked inside his trousers. The skin of his torso was smooth and golden, rows of hard silken muscles contracting at her timid touch. His body radiated heat, luring her like a cat to a patch of sunlight.
“Jack,” she said breathlessly, her hands creeping beneath his shirt to the long plane of his back, “I wish to go no further than this…I…this is quite enough of a birthday present for me.”
He chuckled and nuzzled the side of her throat. “All right.”
She huddled against his bare chest, greedily absorbing the heat and scent of him. “Oh, this is dreadful.”
“Why dreadful?” he asked, smoothing and playing with her curls, his thumb venturing to her temple and grazing the fragile spot.
“Because sometimes it’s better not to know what one is missing.”
“Sweet,” he whispered, and stole a kiss from her lips. “Sweet…let me stay with you a little longer.”
Before she could answer, he kissed her more deeply than before, his large han
ds gently gripping her head through the mass of curls that spread everywhere. She strained upward toward his mouth and body, unable to stop herself from pressing as close as possible. A deep physical agitation, like nothing she had ever felt, welled inside her, and she arched against him in an effort to soothe it. He was strong, big-boned, able to overpower her so easily if he chose, and yet he was astonishingly gentle. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered why she did not fear him as she should. She had been taught since childhood that men were not to be trusted, that they were dangerous creatures who could not control their own passions. Yet she felt safe with this man. She put her hand on his chest, where his shirt gaped open, and the strong, fast beat of his heart resounded against her palm.
He took his mouth from hers and stared down at her with eyes so dark they no longer looked blue. “Amanda, do you trust me?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I don’t know the first thing about you.”
Laughter rustled from his chest. “Sensible woman.” His fingers worked at the buttons of her bodice, deftly freeing the bits of carved ivory from their moorings.
Amanda closed her eyes, while her heartbeat became at once light and violent, like the thrashing of a panicked bird’s wings. I’ll never see him again after tonight, she told herself. She would let herself do these forbidden things with him, and forever afterward keep the memory in some private corner of her mind. A memory for herself alone. When she was an old woman, long accustomed to the years of solitude, she would still have the knowledge that she had once spent an evening with a handsome stranger.
The brown-striped fabric slid open, revealing a chemise made of silky zephyr cotton, overlaid with a lightly boned corset that hooked up the front. Amanda wondered if she should instruct him how to unhook the corset, but it immediately became evident that Jack was familiar with the process. Clearly this was not the first corset he had ever encountered. Her ribs were compressed slightly as he brought the front edges of the garment together and detached the row of small hooks with miraculous ease. After he urged her to pull her arms free of her gown, and she lay before him with her chest covered only in thin, nearly transparent cotton, Amanda felt horribly exposed. Her hands actually shook with the effort not to snatch up the bodice of her gown and cover herself.
“Are you cold?” Jack asked in apparent concern, noting the telltale tremor, and he drew her up against his chest. He was effortlessly strong, vital, the heat of his skin seeping through his linen shirt, and Amanda began to shiver for an entirely different reason.
Jack nudged the strap of her chemise down her arm, and lowered his mouth to the white curve of her shoulder. He touched her gently, the backs of his long fingers drifting over the round shape of her breast. His hand turned over, and his hot, slightly damp palm cupped the top of the slope until her nipple ached sweetly and rose into his hand. His fingertips toyed with her, stroking through the zephyr cotton, pinching tenderly. Amanda closed her eyes and turned her head enough to press her mouth to his cheek, lured by the faintly bristly surface. Her lips tingled as she dragged them down to the place beneath his jaw where the scratchiness blended into smooth, silken skin.
She heard Jack mutter something in Gaelic, his voice blurred and urgent, and he clasped her head in his large hands. He lowered her back to the settee cushions, and his head moved over her chest. His mouth caught at her breast, and he kissed and teased her through the cotton sheath. “Help me pull down your chemise,” he said hoarsely. “Please, Amanda.”
She hesitated, her rapid breath mingling with his, and then she moved to release her arms from the sleeves of her dress. She felt Jack tugging at her chemise until it crumpled in a thin ring around her waist, leaving her upper torso completely bare. It seemed impossible that she was stretched out on the settee with a man she didn’t know, her body half naked, her corset discarded on the floor. “I should not be doing this,” she said shakily, trying in vain to cover her plump breasts with her hands. “I should never have allowed you past the front door.”
“True.” He threw her a crooked grin as he removed his shirt completely, revealing a torso that seemed too perfectly muscular and finely honed to be real. Unbearable tension knotted inside her, and she struggled with inhibition and modesty as he bent over her. “Shall I stop now?” he asked, cuddling her against his long body. “I don’t want to frighten you.”
Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, and she relished the exhilarating sensation of pressing her bare skin against his. She had never felt so vulnerable, so willing to be vulnerable. “I’m not afraid,” she said, her voice dazed and wondering, and she withdrew her hands from between their bodies, so that her breasts pushed directly against his chest.
An aching sound came from his throat, and he buried his face against her throat, kissing her, working his way downward. His mouth covered her nipple, tongue stroking the sensitive tip, and she bit her lip at the startling pleasure of it. The tip of his tongue circled lazily, tasting, tickling, while the heat of his mouth burned like steam. He moved to her other breast, making her whimper in frustration at his slowness, his endless leisure, as if time did not exist and he were going to spend forever feasting on her body.
He lifted her skirts and settled between her thighs, so that the hard ridge behind his trousers fitted against the front of her drawers, where the fine linen had become perplexingly damp. She lay motionless, though her entire body ached to lift upward into the weight and texture of him. Bracing his elbows on either side of her head, Jack stared at her flushed face. He rocked his hips into hers, and she gasped at the intimate pressure of him, sliding exactly against the place she wanted it most. He was wicked, to have such knowledge of a woman’s body. The motion drew pleasure up from between her thighs and sent it flowing through intimate channels of her body. She felt drunk, vibrantly alive, stimulated beyond bearing. Gasping, she put her arms around his back and felt the heavy flex of muscle as he moved again.
There were still layers of clothing between them, trousers and shoes and undergarments, not to mention the troublesome heap of her skirts. Suddenly she wanted to be rid of it all, to feel his entire naked body against hers, and this longing shocked her even as she struggled to press closer to him. He seemed to understand what she wanted, for he gave an unsteady laugh and caught one of her hands in his. “No, Amanda…tonight you’re going to remain a virgin.”
“Why?”
His hand covered her breast, squeezing gently, and he dragged his half-open mouth over her throat. “Because there are a few things you need to know about me first.”
Now that it seemed likely that he would not make love to her, it became the thing Amanda wanted most. “But I’ll never see you again,” she said. “And it’s my birthday.”
Jack laughed at that, his blue eyes gleaming, and he pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, and hugged her close while he murmured endearments in her ear. No one had ever said such things to her before. People were intimidated by her self-possession and no-nonsense demeanor. No man would ever dream of calling her adorable, sweet, darling…and certainly no one had ever made her feel that way. She both craved and hated the effect he had on her, the appalling sting of tears in her eyes, the heat of passion rising in her body. Now she knew exactly why she should never have sent for this mysterious man. It was indeed better not to know about this, when she would never have it again.
“Amanda,” he whispered, mistaking the reason for her unshed tears. “I’ll make you feel better…be still for me…let me…”
His hand searched beneath her skirts until he found the tapes of her drawers, his fingers working expertly to untie them. Her head whirled, and she lay still and trembling while her arms remained wrapped around his shoulders. He touched the soft skin of her stomach, thumb brushing lightly over her navel, and then his fingers slid downward to the place where she had never imagined being touched, where she tried never to touch herself. His hand smoothed over the patch of crisp curls, and then his fingertips searched carefully, making her
hips jerk and twitch.
His Irish accent was thicker, heavier than before. “Is this where it aches, mhuirnin?”
She gasped against his throat. His fingertips teased and rubbed, finding the most exquisitely sensitive place of all, a tiny peak of flesh that quivered to life at his touch. Heat blossomed in her loins, breasts, head. She was a willing prisoner to his gentle manipulations, all her skin flushed and prickling from her scalp to her toes. One finger pressed and intruded until it slid inside her, the small penetration burning slightly as her body clasped him with a jolt of innocent reluctance. Her head fell back, and she looked up dizzily at his face. His eyes were a color she had never seen before, except perhaps in dreams…bright, pure blue, filled with a sexual knowledge that stunned her. His finger flexed inside her while his thumb nudged the burgeoning little point of pleasure, and he repeated the maddening stroking until she arched upward with a shaken cry, unraveling, her volatile senses finally catching fire.
She rode on a lingering swell of feeling, drifting through the warmth, until Jack finally pulled away with a muted groan and sat up, his face turned away from her. The withdrawal of his hands and mouth, the absence of his touch, were almost painful, and Amanda felt her entire body yearning for him. She realized that the release he had given her was not something he intended to allow himself. Tentatively she reached for him, her hand settling on his trouser-clad thigh as she tried to communicate her desire to give him the same pleasure she had just experienced. Still not looking at her, he took her hand from his leg and brought it to his mouth, turning her palm upward to receive his kiss.
