the night. Her mouth
had parted and her eyes were closed tight. Her body arching against
him in silent plea, he was sure she didn’t understand, she let
forth a broken, needy whimper from somewhere deep in her throat. A
sound that he wanted nothing more than to swallow on his tongue
until she produced another and yet another.
The knowledge brought him up short and
with her panting in his arms, her thigh, where his fingers anchored
her, now slick with a fine coat of sweat and twin flags of color
riding high on her cheeks, he looked down at her and tightened his
jaw.
She was too young, she was too rich,
and she was John’s daughter.
Repeat them again when his treacherous
fingers slid just a centimeter higher and pull her tight, bringing
her flush against the hard ridge at the front of his britches so
that her head fell back on a moan.
Too young.
Repeat it again when his eyes traced
the path of a drop of perspiration as it danced down her throat to
disappear in the bodice of her gown.
Too rich.
These words ricochet in his head and
are easily ignored when he found himself leaning forward, hungry
once more for the taste of those lips.
John’s daughter.
This is Jocelyn.
And that, God help him, is what had him
dropping that damnable leg and pushing himself away from her as if
she had the plague.
He felt cold where her body had been,
empty, and ragingly, achingly hard.
Her absence, he noted, was beginning to
leave a hole. And not just any hole, but one with her name
permanently engraved on it. Or at least that was the direction he
was afraid things were going if they hadn’t gotten there
already.
He needed to get control of himself and
fast.
Looking up, he met Jocelyn’s gaze and
barely managed not to flinch at the open vulnerability he found
there.
John’s daughter.
The words were enough to force the rest
of his hunger back when the other two reasons had failed to do
so.
“Da--” She caught herself. “Mr.
Burleigh?”
He’d wanted her to say his name. And
because he’d wanted it, still wanted it, his voice went cold and
his body coiled tight.
“Get out.”
“But--”
“Go back to your room.”
“Mr. Burleigh!”
“NOW!”
His voice was sharp, vicious and it
shocked the horses and the girl badly. Without another word and
with her eyes wide and hurt, she turned and ran back to the inn as
fast as she could, her skirts raised high so as not to trip and her
dancers feet flying across the pitted ground.
He could only breathe again once she
was out of sight and even then he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze
from the inn’s door where she’d disappeared.
“What the hell is the matter with me?”
He’d never acted this way before, never felt this way before. He
felt as if he were losing his mind, as if his skin was too tight.
As if he couldn’t fucking breathe.
Jet nudged the back of his head and
from the front of his stables, where she still stood after he’d
dismounted; Isabelle huffed and pawed the ground, her head shaking
so that her mane bounced. He looked between the two animals and let
out a shaky laugh that was unable to hide the uncertainty, and yes
the fear, he felt.
Following the horses example, he shook
himself and found the weight in his head easier to bear. Running
his hands down his face to clear last vestiges of confusion, he
laughed again and this time the sound held equal parts humor and
amazement which Bella, if her snort was any indication, found to be
a vast improvement.
“Well damn, Bell. Won’t ya look at
that? My hands are shaking.”
* * * *
Back in his room he paced.
That seemed his only escape now. Pacing
and cursing.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into
his father.
His cock was still hard. Even after
he’d taken the time to water both horses and rub down his own
before putting them back into their stalls for the night, he still
ached with a dull throbbing pain that took his breath.
He wasn’t young anymore and the
constant rush of blood from his head
had parted and her eyes were closed tight. Her body arching against
him in silent plea, he was sure she didn’t understand, she let
forth a broken, needy whimper from somewhere deep in her throat. A
sound that he wanted nothing more than to swallow on his tongue
until she produced another and yet another.
The knowledge brought him up short and
with her panting in his arms, her thigh, where his fingers anchored
her, now slick with a fine coat of sweat and twin flags of color
riding high on her cheeks, he looked down at her and tightened his
jaw.
She was too young, she was too rich,
and she was John’s daughter.
Repeat them again when his treacherous
fingers slid just a centimeter higher and pull her tight, bringing
her flush against the hard ridge at the front of his britches so
that her head fell back on a moan.
Too young.
Repeat it again when his eyes traced
the path of a drop of perspiration as it danced down her throat to
disappear in the bodice of her gown.
Too rich.
These words ricochet in his head and
are easily ignored when he found himself leaning forward, hungry
once more for the taste of those lips.
John’s daughter.
This is Jocelyn.
And that, God help him, is what had him
dropping that damnable leg and pushing himself away from her as if
she had the plague.
He felt cold where her body had been,
empty, and ragingly, achingly hard.
Her absence, he noted, was beginning to
leave a hole. And not just any hole, but one with her name
permanently engraved on it. Or at least that was the direction he
was afraid things were going if they hadn’t gotten there
already.
He needed to get control of himself and
fast.
Looking up, he met Jocelyn’s gaze and
barely managed not to flinch at the open vulnerability he found
there.
John’s daughter.
The words were enough to force the rest
of his hunger back when the other two reasons had failed to do
so.
“Da--” She caught herself. “Mr.
Burleigh?”
He’d wanted her to say his name. And
because he’d wanted it, still wanted it, his voice went cold and
his body coiled tight.
“Get out.”
“But--”
“Go back to your room.”
“Mr. Burleigh!”
“NOW!”
His voice was sharp, vicious and it
shocked the horses and the girl badly. Without another word and
with her eyes wide and hurt, she turned and ran back to the inn as
fast as she could, her skirts raised high so as not to trip and her
dancers feet flying across the pitted ground.
He could only breathe again once she
was out of sight and even then he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze
from the inn’s door where she’d disappeared.
“What the hell is the matter with me?”
He’d never acted this way before, never felt this way before. He
felt as if he were losing his mind, as if his skin was too tight.
As if he couldn’t fucking breathe.
Jet nudged the back of his head and
from the front of his stables, where she still stood after he’d
dismounted; Isabelle huffed and pawed the ground, her head shaking
so that her mane bounced. He looked between the two animals and let
out a shaky laugh that was unable to hide the uncertainty, and yes
the fear, he felt.
Following the horses example, he shook
himself and found the weight in his head easier to bear. Running
his hands down his face to clear last vestiges of confusion, he
laughed again and this time the sound held equal parts humor and
amazement which Bella, if her snort was any indication, found to be
a vast improvement.
“Well damn, Bell. Won’t ya look at
that? My hands are shaking.”
* * * *
Back in his room he paced.
That seemed his only escape now. Pacing
and cursing.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into
his father.
His cock was still hard. Even after
he’d taken the time to water both horses and rub down his own
before putting them back into their stalls for the night, he still
ached with a dull throbbing pain that took his breath.
He wasn’t young anymore and the
constant rush of blood from his head
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