and…oh, Christ. This was getting out of hand.
A scathing self-derision poured through him, even as a ravening heat coursed through his veins. Dear God, he was lusting after a woman with her entire family present just inside the house. What the hell was wrong with him?
A rending ache shot through him. She made him think of all he’d once had. Of all he’d lost.
In all the time since Ellie’s death, no woman had tempted him. No woman had touched him. He’d touched no woman. But this one—Lady Annabel McBride—made desire claw through his vitals like a sword. Desire that was almost painful in its intensity stole over him.
For until now, he’d almost forgotten that he was a man. And Annabel McBride’s presence was an unwelcome reminder that five years without a woman had fired his blood and made everything inside him collide.
Simon didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. Yet he couldn’t stop it either. He should have left. Gone off and hired a woman for the night to relieve the floodtide of desire searing his veins. Yet even as the notion possessed him, he knew there would have been no true satisfaction.
“You should run, Lady Anne. Run away now.”
And still his body betrayed him. Betrayed him most traitorously and most thoroughly! A familiar tightness gathered low in his belly, there between his thighs. God, he thought with ablack, silent gust of laughter. Did the chit even have any idea of the effect she was having on him?
Or perhaps she did know. She didn’t move. She just continued to stare at him, her head to the side, her hands twisting around the ends of her stole, those expressive eyes wide and dark, and faintly questioning.
A storm churned inside him. In his heart. His soul. And then everything came crashing down around him.
She was right, he thought hazily. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. If he hadn’t been drinking, he’d never have done what he was about to do next.
Five
Perhaps this is God’s way of punishing me.
Simon Blackwell
There was a low vibration of sound. A sound of need. A sound of anguish. It was her name. Muffled against her lips. Her lips.
Strong hands closed around her waist. He caught her up against him; her breasts registered warmth and the hardness of his chest. She longed to reach up, to twine her arms around him in turn, burrowing her hands inside his jacket. But she didn’t quite dare, for this was her first real taste of desire. Lord, her first taste of a man.
It seemed so impossible, so improbable. Simon Blackwell was kissing her. Her .
Never before had she been kissed—CharlesGoodwin’s attempt certainly didn’t count. She’d managed to avoid it, thank heaven.
But Anne was no different from any other woman. She had dreamed of it. Imagined the thrill of a man’s lips warm upon her own…Wondered where it would be. Who it would be…
And her first kiss— this kiss—did not disappoint.
She felt as if she were tumbling. Floating. The sensations were incredible. Intense. Her hands came up to curl against his waistcoat. Instinct was her guide. Her feelings were her guide. It was as if some powerful force had taken over her body. Tilting her head back ever so slightly, she parted her lips, granting him license, unwittingly deepening the kiss.
When his tongue touched hers, a little shock zinged throughout her body. Did men kiss like that? A silly question, to be sure. Anne did not consider herself a missish schoolgirl. She was well traveled, well read, well spoken. Yet she’d never dreamed of such a thing. But it seemed so right, so natural. She wanted to cry out when his mouth left hers. She felt the flutter of his breath across her skin, the pressure of his lips against her cheek. But then his mouth returned. His hands, strong and warm, swept her stole from her shoulders. He caught her up against him. His lips ground against hers, harder, conveyinga sense of hunger she didn’t fully comprehend.
Nor did she care. God, it felt so good. The world
A scathing self-derision poured through him, even as a ravening heat coursed through his veins. Dear God, he was lusting after a woman with her entire family present just inside the house. What the hell was wrong with him?
A rending ache shot through him. She made him think of all he’d once had. Of all he’d lost.
In all the time since Ellie’s death, no woman had tempted him. No woman had touched him. He’d touched no woman. But this one—Lady Annabel McBride—made desire claw through his vitals like a sword. Desire that was almost painful in its intensity stole over him.
For until now, he’d almost forgotten that he was a man. And Annabel McBride’s presence was an unwelcome reminder that five years without a woman had fired his blood and made everything inside him collide.
Simon didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. Yet he couldn’t stop it either. He should have left. Gone off and hired a woman for the night to relieve the floodtide of desire searing his veins. Yet even as the notion possessed him, he knew there would have been no true satisfaction.
“You should run, Lady Anne. Run away now.”
And still his body betrayed him. Betrayed him most traitorously and most thoroughly! A familiar tightness gathered low in his belly, there between his thighs. God, he thought with ablack, silent gust of laughter. Did the chit even have any idea of the effect she was having on him?
Or perhaps she did know. She didn’t move. She just continued to stare at him, her head to the side, her hands twisting around the ends of her stole, those expressive eyes wide and dark, and faintly questioning.
A storm churned inside him. In his heart. His soul. And then everything came crashing down around him.
She was right, he thought hazily. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. If he hadn’t been drinking, he’d never have done what he was about to do next.
Five
Perhaps this is God’s way of punishing me.
Simon Blackwell
There was a low vibration of sound. A sound of need. A sound of anguish. It was her name. Muffled against her lips. Her lips.
Strong hands closed around her waist. He caught her up against him; her breasts registered warmth and the hardness of his chest. She longed to reach up, to twine her arms around him in turn, burrowing her hands inside his jacket. But she didn’t quite dare, for this was her first real taste of desire. Lord, her first taste of a man.
It seemed so impossible, so improbable. Simon Blackwell was kissing her. Her .
Never before had she been kissed—CharlesGoodwin’s attempt certainly didn’t count. She’d managed to avoid it, thank heaven.
But Anne was no different from any other woman. She had dreamed of it. Imagined the thrill of a man’s lips warm upon her own…Wondered where it would be. Who it would be…
And her first kiss— this kiss—did not disappoint.
She felt as if she were tumbling. Floating. The sensations were incredible. Intense. Her hands came up to curl against his waistcoat. Instinct was her guide. Her feelings were her guide. It was as if some powerful force had taken over her body. Tilting her head back ever so slightly, she parted her lips, granting him license, unwittingly deepening the kiss.
When his tongue touched hers, a little shock zinged throughout her body. Did men kiss like that? A silly question, to be sure. Anne did not consider herself a missish schoolgirl. She was well traveled, well read, well spoken. Yet she’d never dreamed of such a thing. But it seemed so right, so natural. She wanted to cry out when his mouth left hers. She felt the flutter of his breath across her skin, the pressure of his lips against her cheek. But then his mouth returned. His hands, strong and warm, swept her stole from her shoulders. He caught her up against him. His lips ground against hers, harder, conveyinga sense of hunger she didn’t fully comprehend.
Nor did she care. God, it felt so good. The world
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