Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) by Elizabeth Essex Page B

 
    She was an apt pupil, clever, curious, fey Quince Winthrop was. “Ooh. I see what you mean.” Her breath warmed the side of his neck above his collar for fraction of a second before her finger followed, drawing a light, evocative line down the side of his neck. “Aye. I do see.”
    He himself could see nothing—the scent of her filled his head, all but blinding him. She smelled like a warm summer day, all blue sky and fresh breezes. He closed his eyes, and inhaled until he fancied he could smell the wild roses that grew in the hills around Cairn. “Oh, aye.”
    And then, there it was, the merest warming just below his cheekbone—a murmur against his skin. A hint of warmth, and then the slight press of sweet firmness, her lips touching his skin. So soft. So very surprisingly soft, when all the rest of her was a bundle of sharp, stinging nettles.
    Alasdair squeezed his eyes tight so he might take it all in—his anticipation, the pleasure and newness of their wary dance toward trust, the eroticism of her surprising restraint—and turned carefully to present her with the other cheek.
    Her second kiss was less tentative. More sure, more emblematic of that characteristic bold curiosity of hers. She let her lips linger against his skin, and then meander across his face, making their slow curious way toward his mouth.  
    “Aye, lass.” It was everything he could do to stand and wait and hope her lips would soon find his. To pray that she would like her first taste of him enough to take a second, and a third kiss. And want to delve deeper.
    Her hesitation—the delicate approach that seemed so out of tune with her brash character—nearly did him in. It made him want to take her in his arms and hold her and draw her close and tell her all the words he should not say. Encourage her to do her worst, because he was more than prepared to do his best.  
    But he was suddenly unsure if his best would be good enough. If his experience would prove equal to her native wit and natural curiosity.  
    It would be a monstrous thing to disappoint wee Quince Winthrop.
    And with that realization, Alasdair could no longer fathom what he thought he was doing alone in a dark room, kissing wee Quince Winthrop. All he knew was that if he didn’t taste her lips with his, he would go mad.  
    “That’s fine, lass, fine,” he murmured encouragement, and held himself scrupulously still as her lips skated along the line of his jaw to his ear, and back. “Take yer time. No need tae rush—”
    “Strathcairn,” she breathed into his ear. “Do shut up.”
    And then she was there—her lips sliding along his, pressing against his with the beginnings of desire, learning the texture and taste of him. And he was falling and flying and yearning, already dying for her. Already addicted to the astonishing sweetness of her lips on his.
    His arms ached to hold her. To cup her moonbeam face, and stroke the line of that stubborn chin. To run his fingers into the artfully tousled disarray of her bright chestnut hair. To explore all the secret places that would set her passions alight, and leave her too flushed with pleasure to lead him a merry dance.  
    But he had to go slow, and let her set the pace. No matter her veneer of brashness, every fiber of his being told Alasdair that wee Quince Winthrop was an innocent. Every instinct he possessed told him that she was a lass rife with secrets, and that he had to go slowly and carefully if he wanted to uncover them one by hidden one.
    The temptation to surrender himself to desire was nearly too great. She smelled too delicious. She tasted too sweet. “Quince.” He breathed her name like an endearment, repeated it like a prayer. “Sweet Quince.”
    In response, her hands slid up his coat, crushing the velvet lapels. He let her draw him in, let her pull him closer as curiosity became pleasure, and pleasure began to grow into passion. Let her decide to press herself fully against him so he could feel the