Unveiled (Turner, #1)

“Pardon me,” he said. “That has to be the most mangled logic I have ever heard. I have heard men say some damnably stupid things to get a woman in bed, but that particular line could win a prize in a tavern contest.”


“And I believed him.” Margaret spoke softly, but now he could hear that line of anger in her voice. “I believed him. And then I found out—” She stopped again, briefly, and collected herself. “I found out it was all lies.”

He wanted to kiss her now. Not for pleasure. Not for the sensual joy of her. But for comfort. To tell her that not all men were untrustworthy liars. But that kiss would have been for his benefit, not hers. The last thing she needed now was more physical importunity. What she truly needed after that confession…

Ash sighed. “Was he at least any good at it?”

She choked and jerked away from him. “Ash,” she said, her voice unsteady, “I just told you I was not a virgin. Half the men out there would believe that my virtue was gone. That it wouldn’t be a rape if you took me, even if I protested.”

What an appalling sentiment. “Well,” he said after an awkward pause, “that answers my question. He was terrible.”

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. He simply looked back at her, and waited for her breath to fall into evenness. See? I shan’t hurt you.

“Yes,” she said slowly, as if she were just realizing the truth of it. “He was terrible, wasn’t he? In fact, he was really, really bad at it.” As she spoke, a small smile touched her lips.

Perhaps it was the first time she’d discovered the power of words. No doubt the memory had been a source of torment for her. It always helped to be able to place the blame squarely where it belonged, instead of allowing it to eat you up inside.

“Was it painful?” he asked.

She looked down. “It was boring,” she finally admitted. “All that fuss—and once he got started, all I could think was, my God, when is this going to be over?”

Ash tamped down a smile. She wasn’t going to find it boring with him. He was going to worship her, from the smooth column of her neck to the tight rosettes of her nipples. He was going to set her aflame, coaxing every last desire from her body.

She tilted her head up to look at him. No, not just look; she was studying him, as if he were a painting whose import she had yet to divine. Her eyebrows drew down in puzzled slashes. And then, slowly, she lifted her hand.

He didn’t dare breathe. He felt as if he’d spent weeks leaving crumbs for a bird, only to have it land on a stone wall beside him. It was hell to keep still, to wait for that moment. But then she brushed her fingers down the side of his face and it was sweet heaven. Her touch was wary, as if she feared a sudden movement on his part. His hands clenched at his sides. God, he wanted to touch her back. He wanted to grab her to him, to press his body against hers. He wanted that kiss against his lips.

But it was exploration, as she tentatively stroked the line of his jaw. When she traced the contours of his lips, she was asking him a question. Am I safe with you? And no matter that he wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her close, he could have only one answer for her. Yes, darling. Always. Even more than he needed the feel of her lush body beneath his, even more than his thumbs yearned to part the slick depths of her sex, he wanted her to be sure of him. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. As if he’d been veiled in mists all the days of their acquaintance and she was only now making out his features.

These tentative caresses were discovery on her part. Not seduction. This wasn’t seduction.

But damn it, he was seduced anyway. She stepped in closer—so close her skirts brushed his trousers, so close that it would be the work of a moment to trap her in his arms. He had a vast well of patience to call upon. But beneath it all, a deeper current welled up. He wanted her. Not just this tremulous reconnaissance. He wanted more than the feel of her body clasping his, more than the certainty of her physical surrender. He wanted to possess all of her—from her fierce loyalty to the wary strength he sensed hidden inside her.

Her hands drifted down to his shoulders. He’d shed his jacket long before, but even through his satin waistcoat, he could feel the warmth of her fingers. They pressed down on him as she lifted up onto her toes. She leaned into him, her breasts sliding against him, her arms coming round his neck. Her lips were a light flutter against first his chin, then his cheek. He bowed his head, trading every ragged exhalation with her. If she pressed against him just a little more, she would know just how badly he wanted her. He was painfully, exquisitely erect.

And she wanted him, physically. He could not miss the signs—the flush on her cheeks, the unsteady rhythm of her breath. The sway of her body against his.