Unveiled (Turner, #1)

She let out a shaky exhale, and then her hands rose to clasp his shoulders in agreement.

“I know you,” he whispered against her. “Sweet as summer, and every bit as welcome.” He kissed her again and felt her body relax into his. This, they had done before. It should have been familiar. And yet the knowledge of what could yet come kept Ash on edge. It made even this simple embrace mysterious, and her kiss new all over again. He ran his finger, gently, down the smocked front of her shift. He could feel the fine needlework against his fingertips. Idly, he wondered if she had done that herself—those precise stitches.

It didn’t matter. Beneath those stitches lay the naked curve of her—her breast lay full in his hand, the taut nipple brushing against his palm. She shivered at that hint of a touch. And he could hold back no longer.

He leaned down and took that tip in his mouth. He tasted her through the fabric of her garment. He swirled his tongue around that tight bud. Her hands clutched him tighter. He heard himself growl in his throat, a happy sound of possession. It seemed a pale echo of the resonant thrum of his blood, pumping through him in insistent want.

“Ash,” she was panting, “Ash.” He could feel her breath against his scalp, her hands brushing down his bare back to find the waist of his loose trousers.

Oh, God. She fumbled with buttons—he couldn’t breathe—and then she pushed the fabric down. Her fingers brushed his bare hips. He felt the low scrape of her nails against his thighs. He drew breath in as her exploration continued. That first delicate touch of her fingers against his groin, the sensitive flesh of his member, nearly unmanned him. She drew breath in, and then her hands clasped around him, touching him, warming the hard length of him.

She was the one to lift her head. To raise one hand and push him towards the bed.

And as much as he wanted to sink inside her, he’d not intended to take matters quite that far. “I promised Mrs. Benedict I wouldn’t debauch you.”

“I made a promise, too.” Her voice shook. “But if this is how you must know me—then I want you to understand. Before I tell you. If you can’t debauch me, let me debauch you.”

Something was terribly wrong with that logic, something that would occur to him, if he gave it but a moment’s thought. Good thing Ash wasn’t a philosopher.

He needed no further encouragement; no sooner did he feel her hand on his chest, urging him backward, than he scooped her up and whirled her around in his arms, turning her about until they were both dizzy, and there was nothing to do but let her fall crazily on the feather tick of the mattress. She laughed up at him, her limbs splayed out, her breath wild. The moon caught the curve of her bare ankle.

Before he could move forwards, she pushed herself to sit up and reached for the hem of her shift. His erection pulsed insistently in response. His lungs burned. In one slow, deliberate motion, she peeled off that scrap of linen, revealing hips, high and curved; the dark triangle between her legs; navel, up past smooth ribs, to the perfect swell of her breast and the dark rose of her nipples. His mouth dried.

She crooked her finger at him and he drifted forwards to kneel on the floor in front of her.

“Ash, what are you doing?”

He grinned at her wickedly. “Making sure you aren’t bored.” He hooked his hands under her knees and pulled her forwards, settling between her legs. Then he leaned to kiss her calves, up her inner thighs. The folds of her sex parted under his exploration. He kissed her there, the inner center of her.

“Ash?”

He took the ripple of her muscles as encouragement. Another kiss, this time with tongue, exploring the folds of her sex.

She was wet for him; he could taste her desire, sweet and reminiscent of some fine, complicated wine. He took her with his mouth, tasting her.

“This is what I want to know about you,” he whispered.

He tasted her there, and her hands squeezed his arms; there, and her hips thrust towards him. He circled his tongue, found the nub at the center of her pleasure, and she let out a helpless mewl.

“This is what I need. To understand the map of your body. To explore your every last secret.”

Biblically, the word for making love was to know. It had always seemed a hopelessly effete euphemism to Ash until now. Her taste on his lips was knowledge. He took her harder, pushing her, coaxing her with his tongue. The curve of her body around his, the tension in her muscles, the grip of her fingers—they were all knowledge, deeper and harder than anything he had ever understood before. Her body stiffened. He felt heat well up around her, felt the strength of her release against his lips.

And he knew her.

“Oh, God,” she said, her voice indistinct above him. “Oh, Ash. Ash. Ash.” Her hands clutched his shoulders, hard. He felt as if he were on a boat, rocked by an enormous swell of the ocean. He felt a little dazed. He could hear her breath, hard and thready.