Unveiled (Turner, #1)

He couldn’t help himself.

He kissed her. Hard, too; his mouth met hers with open lips, taking her with a ravenous intensity. He’d held back from her for too long, had held back this kiss, until it broke over him with all the ferocity of a summer storm. He was the lightning striking fertile ground, the hard rain driving into a field. And if he was a bolt of energy, swift and sure, she was the thunder, a low, powerful rumble that passed through him and stood his hairs on end.

Her lips were the welcoming fields, parched for his rain. She fit him, her body molding to his, her lips latching on to his. Her hands ran up his arms to his shoulders; he enfolded her in his embrace. He was hot and rigid for her, had been ever since she’d spoken about ankles. Her body cradled his erection, even through all the layers of their clothing. He could feel the rub of the fabric, harsh friction against his member.

He kissed her and with his fingers he sketched what he wanted from her. He traced her cheeks, and willed the sadness in her eyes to be swept away in the tumultuous aftermath of passion. His hand painted a line down her spine, inch by inch, and spoke of his desire to have her naked in his arms. He wanted her, needed her, with a sheer animal intensity that would not be gainsaid.

It was that sheer want that led his hand to her breast, that unthinking desire that made him touch her there. It was lust, pure and simple, that guided his hand to that curve. But her response—that sweet arch of her spine—meant more to him than mere lust. It was desire, yes. But it was also a recognition, twanging through him, a poignant acknowledgement that with her, he could be vulnerable.

He could barely feel the shape of her beneath her corset, but he could imagine the peak of her nipple. He could feel her response as he circled that bud with his fingers, could feel the desire in her kiss increase in intensity. She leaned against his hand. It was a form of trust.

He’d already trusted her with far more than his bodily response. Somehow, he guided her back onto the sofa. Somehow, he straddled her, loosened the sash of her dress, and then, one by one, undid the little buttons of her bodice. It was rough work, his hands jostling with every breath she took. Somehow, he finished—and thanked the Lord for a front-lacing demi-corset, finer than he’d imagined a nurse would wear. The ivory flowers underneath her dress seemed like a feminine little secret, one known by just the two of them. He unlaced this to reveal a thin shift, beneath which he could make out the dusky pink tips of her nipples—a darker rose than her lips, but begging for his kiss just the same.

He gave it, taking that peak in his mouth, while his hands slid down to her waist.

She moaned and rolled beneath him, her hips cradling his frame, his erection pressing into her thigh. He could have tasted her forever, could have let the feel of her seep into him. She came alive beneath him, pressing up. And he needed more. He lifted his lips from the curve of her breast to kiss her lips again. It was maddening, utterly maddening, to have her so close and yet so far from him. He pulled away from her—only for a moment, only long enough to set his hands on her ankles. And then he traced the perfection of her skin up, up, up the curve of her calves, to her knees.

Her skirt slid up, and still she didn’t pull away from him. She hadn’t flinched. Instead, she threw her head back and parted her thighs at his invasion. Her legs— God, the feel of them, warm and round and long and slim beneath his palms. He pushed a mess of petticoats out of the way.

He could have adored her knees until dawn came. He would have, had the rest of her not been so compelling. Her thighs, trembling at his touch. And then he rearranged her drawers and discovered the damp curls between her legs, the folds of her sex, wet with desire. He parted her and ran his thumb along the seam. She was rosy-pink there, too. The scent of her feminine musk overwhelmed him.

It would take so little to make her his. His thumb paused on her flesh. Belatedly, he realized that he’d been tracing his own wants against her skin—a figure eight, lying on its side. Eternity. Infinity.

Sanity returned, greatly unwanted. She’d asked him for a little defiance. Ash was getting carried away by the fervor of the moment. If he were to unbutton his trousers and take her, it would be shabby recompense for the gift she’d given him. From what she’d told him, he doubted she had much experience with the sweeping feel of passion. She was too overwhelmed to deny him. But then, she hadn’t precisely said yes, either.

Ash wanted to beat his head against brick in frustration. It would probably be the only thing that would banish his lust, and then, only if he did it hard enough.