Chapter Fourteen #2
“Give me the dammed jar,” he finally said impatiently. She placed it in his outstretched hand, and their fingers brushed. He took the pot and practically flung it onto the chair. It teetered to the edge but didn’t fall.
“Why did you come here, Fiona?” he bit off, raking his fingers through his disordered hair. “Don’t you know all the levels of propriety you break being alone with a single man at this hour of the morning? Are you so completely na?ve?”
“I’m not na?ve,” she retorted. “Why are you being so rude? I’m trying to help you…you…bodhar. I wanted to thank you for heaven’s sake. You’re in pain, but there’s no need to take it out on me like some spoiled—”
With a muttered expletive, he took her by the shoulders and crushed her against him. She froze, then freed a hand to push him away. He released her immediately, breathing harshly. They locked eyes, and Fiona, to her astonishment, reached for him.
Richard pulled her close again, this time bending to capture her lips, demanding and coaxing all at once and she met him kiss for kiss. He kissed her in places she never imagined: the corner of her mouth, her cheekbone, the hollow beneath her ear, then her throat and collarbones.
Then, his lips sought her mouth again, and the pressure deepened, no longer greedy but slow and seductive.
“Open your mouth for me,” he murmured against her lips, which were swollen and ripe with desire from his kisses.
“Why would I—”
His tongue curled around hers, exploring and teasing in a way that weakened her knees.
“Oh…my,” she managed when he lifted his head.
“You wretch—I am torn between kissing you or spanking you every moment of every day.”
Fiona stood on tiptoe to reach his mouth again. “You should kiss me then,” she breathed.
She drew his head down when he hesitated and wound her fingers in his dark locks.
He groaned, angling his lips across hers and exploring her mouth so thoroughly that her knees wobbled.
The thickness of his arousal brushed her stomach.
Cupping her bottom, he lifted her against his hard shaft, which only intensified the throbbing ache at the core of her femininity.
“Fiona,” he muttered hoarsely, burying his face in the hollow of her breasts, lifting them in his hands to press scorching kisses to each one.
Even through her gown, they throbbed in response, cresting against the thin silk.
He pulled her bodice aside and his tongue flicked one ripe bud.
Drawing the other into his mouth, he suckled and teased, and her gossamer undergarment became saturated with slick wet heat, clinging to her thighs.
“Richard…A Dhiá…Richard…”
“Tell me to stop…I need to stop,” he rasped, sliding her down his body so her feet touched the ground.
She was glad his hands were around her waist, for she didn’t think she could stand. Reaching up, Fiona traced his lips with trembling fingertips. “A mhuirnín, ní féidir liom…I don’t think I can…”
He turned his cheek into her hand, kissing her palm, his breathing ragged and uneven against her skin.
Shyly, she traced the contours of his face, encouraged by his sharp intake of breath.
She smoothed back the tousled mahogany hair from his brow, and her fingers traveled through the thick waves down to the nape of his neck.
He gave a throaty growl of pleasure, tipping his head back, but his clothing impeded further exploration.
Richard’s hand dropped to the frogged closure of the dressing gown, but he hesitated after unfastening the loop.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Le do thoil…let me see you…”
His eyes were heavy-lidded, lambent with banked fire as he slipped the heavy silk from his shoulders, then the lawn shirt. Her heart pounded like a drum.
Fiona caught her breath at the sight of his bare torso. “Mochuisle…chomh ládir, chomh dathúil…”
“You’re driving me mad,” he said thickly. “What are you saying?”
“I called you strong…and handsome.” Reverently, her hands slid over the muscled curves of his shoulders and slipped down his formidable biceps. Her fingertips skimmed his dusky aureola, so different from hers. The caress elicited a groan, and his hand dropped to the front of his breeches.
With a frisson of excitement, Fiona realized the balance of power had shifted.
He was as aroused as she and subject to her touch in the same way despite all his strength.
Her hand traced the line of dark hair leading to the thick outline of his masculinity beneath the satin breeches.
She paused at the waistband, her courage failing.
With a fractured groan, he lifted her in his arms and strode over to the brocade sofa.
He lowered her to the cushions, his jagged breathing audible in the still room.
Her heart was in her throat as he found the fall of his breeches and went to the first button, ripping it from the fabric impatiently.
Without warning, a log collapsed in the fireplace and rolled onto the oriental rug. Richard started and turned, snatching up a throw and dampening the smoldering wood. The smell of burning fabric drifted across the room.
He looked down at her, his eyes focused and clear for the first time, and she saw the dawning horror on his face.
“Christ in heaven, Fiona…what am I doing?” Loathing filled his knotted voice as he took stock of his half-open breeches and her disheveled gown.
It was as though a shock of cold water poured over her.
The heavy mist of pleasure dissipated, and reason crept into its place.
She fought a wave of shame—how must it look, alone in a room with the Earl of Seldon, her hair loose in its pins, her breasts exposed, and her skirts crumpled.
What was she thinking? Only a woman with a complete lack of morals would put herself in this situation.
Mortified, Fiona scrambled from the sofa and fled the room.