Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“I want—” she began, but stopped, letting out a small cry, as he caressed her once more.

“Tell me what you want.” His voice was strong, urgent.

“No—oh, Mark—we can’t. We have to stop. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

He paused. And then he pulled his hands away, letting her skirts fall. She ached all over. Her body screamed at her for completion. Still, she scrambled to her feet.

“There’s a basin over there, if you want it.” She pointed, realized he couldn’t see her, and stumbled over to a side table near the entrance. Her hands shook as she found a lucifer by shape, shook when it failed to light once, twice—on her third try, a sharp sulfurous smell filled the room. She cupped the precious flame and lit a candle. The light danced, too bright, and too late she realized her mistake. If he could see her eyes, he would see…everything.

Behind her, Mark had found the basin. He washed his hands methodically before turning back to her.

“Let me explain something to you,” he said. His trousers were tented out in front of him; she tried not to focus on that telltale bulge. “You warned me once not to make a romance of you.” He advanced on her again. But when he got to her, he didn’t try to kiss her. He turned her around, so her back was to him, and folded his arms around her. “You have only one chance to escape.”

His hands slid to her waist, curled in the sash of her dress.

“I plan to thwart you,” he said against her neck. “I am going to make you understand that you deserve to have romance. And you, my dearest, will not be able to stop me.”

He pulled the ends of her sash, letting it float to the ground.

“Mark?”

He undid the top button at the nape of her neck. “I never should have listened to you about that anyway.”

His lips touched her ear—the lobe of it, just a brush, the heat of his breath in sharp contrast to the chill of his hands. Her nipples tightened, pointing; a well of warmth rose up inside her. And then he was not just kissing her ear but catching it lightly between his teeth, his mouth tracing the edge. His tongue—oh, heavens, his tongue, flicking out. She felt it in her hands, her breasts, that rising sense of pleasure.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just finished unbuttoning her dress, his fingers moving slowly. “Thank you for lighting the candle,” he said quietly, as he slid the sleeves down her shoulders. He pressed his lips to her neck. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this without light.”

His hands slid to her corset laces. He leisurely untied the knot, unlaced the ribbons and pulled the garment away. She wanted to grab for it, to pull it back. It wasn’t just her body he wanted; it was intimacy, and that was more than she’d given in years. She couldn’t help but feel that at any moment, he would come to his senses and leave her where she stood, trembling and hurt and wanting.

“Is there a trick to the petticoats?” He found the first button that held the top layer in place.

“Mark, what are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.” He peeled away one layer of muslin and started in on the next. “I’m undressing you.” The second petticoat joined the first on the floor. “I feel like I’m taking apart a watch,” he said. “It’s easy enough to disconnect the parts, but I’m fairly certain I couldn’t reconstruct the whole without expert help.”

“Truly, Mark, you have to stop.” She was beginning to shake.

Her last petticoat slid to the floor, and she stood in her shift.

“Is that what you want?”

She turned in his arms. His eyes slid down her form—uncluttered now by skirts and excess fabric.

All her scampering vulnerabilities froze in the heat of his gaze. She felt like a rabbit staring up at a hawk. But this hawk didn’t pounce. Instead, he simply leaned in and kissed her. It was a sweet kiss—just his lips against hers, his hand on her shoulder. Her body melted against his. She carried her fear inside that rising tide of pleasure, like shattered glass waiting to slice her.

As he kissed her, his hands moved. He traced her form as if he wanted to commit it to memory. The hairs on her arm stood up, brought to attention by that gentle touch.

“If we go much further, I’m going to lose my head,” she confessed.

He pushed back and looked her in the eyes. “Lose it,” he advised, and then he leaned down and fastened his lips to her breast. Heat washed over her. Her protests, weak and halfhearted as they’d been, disappeared, swallowed in the swelling need of her body.

“You like that.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve thought about doing that for ages. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.”