The Coachman's Daughter by Gayle Eden

sides of her
neck, his thumbs brushing her jaw line. It left a tingle a trail of
sensitive flesh behind. “I’m kissing you, Mulhern.”
    His words were followed by another dip of his
head. Kisses next were soft, supple nibbles at the corner of her
mouth, then whisper soft upon her lips.
    She had her eyes closed.
    It only intensified the sensations.
    “You smell of fresh flowers and rain,” he
murmured near her ear before pressing his lips there.
    There was something about the gentle way he
did it, something in the slight part of them, the moments he tasted
her skin that pushed back any fear she had. Haven was not afraid of
him in the typical way, she was more afraid of herself—because in
her secret dreams, she had wondered….
    His lips were warm when they covered hers
again, and Haven could not help it. She opened for him. Her body,
her skin, flushed when their tongues did a sensual duel. He was
teaching and tasting her, and he was doing it as lover would,
unhurried, making her feel what tongues could taste, and giving her
inner mouth caresses that were like—sex.
    He released her lips slowly, the flesh
clinging from the mating.
    Her lashes parted enough to look at him, her
mind clear enough despite the haze to realize he was undoing
buttons on her shirt.
    “My lips, my mouth,” he said, before parting
the edges, “Want to feel you.”
    She released a loud unsteady breath, gazing
downwards the moment he dipped, and his sensual lips were around
her pale pink nipple. Her breath grew more uneven and ragged.
    Haven helplessly took her hands from being
pressed against the wood and carefully cupped his head. His soft
hair was cool amid her fingers. Those lips were pure velvet on the
now painfully hard peaks.
    She felt it between her legs as he suckled
one, then he moved to the other. They were not large breasts,
rather shallow, milk white and large of nipple. He cupped the
underside and his head moved, his inner lips caressing that
hardening flesh.
    There was a change she recognized as arousal
in him. Somewhere between panting and absorbing shocks sparking
through her body, she saw his tongue flicker over her areola, and
his white teeth teased them.
    It was a stinging pleasure, exquisite. Haven
knew she was lost.
    After thoroughly suckling each, leaving her
breathless, and the tips quivering wet, Deme raised his head and
kissed her. His tongue and lips seemed more erotic because of where
they hand been. Every time the tip of his tongue brushed hers, her
nipples felt it.
    He suckled on her tongue and bit at her
lip.
    “Oh. God.” She managed when he let her
breathe again, and dropped her head forward, resting it against his
upper chest a moment. Her hands moved from his hair, down to his
upper arms. “This must stop,” she groaned.
    His own hands were warm and firm on her
sides. He brushed his lips in her hair. “Does it not feel
pleasant?”
    “Very.” She released a vacillating breath,
eyes squeezed shut. Her body felt coiled, everything inside her
skin tense, her skin itself, ultra-sensitive. “That doesn’t make it
right. I’m not one of your London ladies or serving wenches.”
    One hand moved round to her spine, the other
easing up higher, just under her breast. “I have no confusion about
whom you are. I rarely kiss a doxie, and I certainly do not feel
this aroused with one. I know exactly who you are.”
    She shook her head and moaned. “We don’t even
like each other.”
    “True. We don’t.” he laughed tersely. “But
I’ve wanted to kiss those lips for some time. Who knew, Mulhern,
that once I had, I would be more intoxicated by that than brandy?
Your skin, your breasts, are quiet the most beautiful things I have
ever seen.”
    She lifted her head, vision fogged by her own
intoxication with him. Her whisper was as low and husky as his.
“You shouldn’t be talking to me like this. We shouldn’t…”
    Deme stared deep into her eyes, his arousal,
yes, not that far from the surface. “How