This week’s theme is kisses, and the feelings that go with them. You show me yours (in the comments) and I’ll show you mine, from To Claim the Long-Lost Lover, which will be out in July. Sarah has just invited Nate to stay with her for the night.
Nate reached Sarah’s side, and handed her a glass. “Thank you, Wilson, but I shall be maid for my wife tonight.” He kissed Sarah’s forehead, and Wilson blinked several times before bobbing a curtsey and stammering, “Yes, my lord. My lady. Um.” She bobbed again. “Every happiness. Hot water. Yes.” And still bobbing, she hurried from the room, closing the door behind her.
“Poor Wilson. I am afraid she might burst of curiosity.”
Nate ran his finger down her check and then slid a hand down her arm and across onto her breast, driving what she had been about to say completely out of her head.
His voice was husky as he commented, “She should knock before she comes in, should she?”
Sarah sipped her brandy, trying to pretend she was not going up in flames. “I hoped that was a good idea,” she told him.
He sipped his own before answering, his hand continuing its explorations, shaping her breast and then moving to the other. “An excellent idea. But I think I should not strip you naked quite yet?”
She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. He was bold, this older, more confident Nate. “Nor I, you.” She managed the retort, and her voice barely shook.
“Perhaps a kiss, then?” he asked. His hand slid around her back to hold her firm against him, and his lips descended on hers.
For seven years, memories of their kisses and embraces had fuelled her dreams. Tender at first, almost tentative, this kiss set those memories in the shade from the first, and as the heat rose and his free hand pressed her closer; as she spiralled into a space out of time and place where nothing existed but him, the memories slipped away to be replaced by new ones.
Somehow, the glasses were gone, and both of his hands were on her, and hers on him, untying and stripping off his cravat, fumbling undone the buttons of his waistcoat, pulling his shirt from his pantaloons so she could slide her hands up under it, to stroke and caress his warm firm skin, silk over steel, much more of it than back when he had been a skinny youth just shooting up from boyhood and still inches short of his adult height.
Such random thoughts surfaced and drifted away as he released her for long enough to wriggle out of his waistcoat, pull the shirt over his head, all the while kissing her as if the touch of her lips was keeping him alive.
Then his hands were on her again, and he was kissing her neck and then lower. With her bodice now completely unfastened, her gown slipped down her body to pool around her feet, and she kicked free of it and curved her spine so that he had room to continue to feast while she pressed the rest of her body to his.
The knock on the door was repeated twice before either of them surfaced enough to notice.
