Just One Kiss (22 page)

She was nearly delirious with bliss when he finally lifted his head. "Touch me," he said raggedly.

His intent was unmistakable. He caught at her hand and dragged it down across the flattened plane of his belly…

"Yes.
Yes
. Touch me, Elizabeth.
Touch me
."

Elizabeth's pulse knocked wildly, yet his dark whisper compelled her to obey. Lean fingers atop hers, he guided her with heart-stopping deliberation. The plundering journey came to a halt only when her palm closed about the jutting ridge of his member. With the subtle pressure of his hand, he held hers trapped beneath his for a mind-splitting instant.

He was enormous, swollen and thick. Deep inside, she was appalled that she didn't snatch back her hand and leap from the bed. Yet the curiosity she'd denied now commanded her. She extended her fingertips, barely skimming his flesh, her touch as light as a feather. She was stunned at his heat and hardness, yet the arching crown seemed encased in silk.

"You see?" His voice sounded odd and strained. "There's nothing to be afraid of. No weapon. Just more need for you than my body can contain."

She gazed at him. His eyes were squeezed shut. The tendons of his neck stood taut. With the tips of her fingers, shyly she traced the length of his shaft and back again, gauging his reaction. She couldn't have withheld the question had her life depended on it. "You… like this?" she whispered.

His groan was all the answer she needed. Again his hand clamped hers, but it was only to show her how she might deliver the utmost pleasure.

A heady feeling of power consumed her. He was no less affected by her fledgling touch than she, and the knowledge gave her a boldness that would later make her cheeks flush scarlet.

But pleasure was not only hers to give, but to receive. "Stop," he said with an odd little laugh. "It's your turn now."

His mouth sought hers. His knuckles grazed a shattering path across the hollow of her belly. Boldly he weaved through the golden thatch at the juncture of her thighs. Elizabeth jerked when a daring finger breached tender folds of flesh, clear inside her.

But there was more. With his thumb he stroked a tiny little pearl of flesh where a pinnacle of sensation dwelled. His touch, maddening and elusive, made her moan and writhe. To her everlasting shock, damp warmth gathered there, in the furrowed cleft he claimed so boldly.

Her nails dug into the knotted hardness of his arms. Horribly embarrassed by that dampness, she drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Stop!" she pleaded. "Oh, please, I don't think—"

He understood. He gave a tiny shake of his head. "It's all right, sweet. It means you want me. You do, don't you?"

Something had surfaced in his voice, an uncharacteristic uncertainty that made her melt inside. She touched his cheek. "Yes," she whispered in a voice that wasn't entirely steady. "I do want you. I do." She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung.

It was all the invitation he needed. He crushed her to him, his embrace fiercely strong. She reveled in it, in the hotly demanding pressure of his mouth on hers as he rolled her to her back.

She felt the searing probe of his manhood against her thighs, but there was no time to be afraid. His breath filled her mouth, even as his shaft filled her body. She drew a shallow breath, somehow expecting the same arrowing pain as before shooting through her belly.

At last he was buried to the hilt inside her. He didn't move, but allowed her to grow used to the feel of his swollen manhood deep within her. She was stunned at the straining pressure of his invasion, yet her body engulfed him, all of him. Yet it was just as he'd said; even as she felt herself stretched to the limit, there was no pain, only the indescribable sensation of his thick rod imprisoned hot and tight in her silken sheath.

Slowly he raised his head. Silver eyes aflame, he stared down at her. "Are you all right?" His voice was gritty, his jaw tense.

Wordlessly she gave him her answer, pulling his head down to hers.

Slowly he began to move, sinking deep within her. Again. And yet again. She caught her breath at the wondrous friction of his manhood sliding against her—inside her—even as she sensed his restraint.

Her eyes glazed over. An emotion that was painfully sweet caught at her chest. Morgan O'Connor was not a man she'd have called tender. Yet it was there in every kiss; in the achingly slow caress of his fingers over her skin, in the care he'd taken to see that she was spared further hurt at his hands… hands that gave a pleasure she'd never dreamed could exist.

With each plunge of his hardness within her, heat flashed along her veins. A heavy ache unfurled low in her belly. She buried her fingers in the midnight darkness of his hair, touched his nape, ran her fingers over the corded smoothness of his back.

Hunger wound through her. Her body caught fire. Her hips met his, eagerly seeking, instinctively searching for what only he could give.

"Morgan," she cried against his throat. "
Morgan
."

This was the first time she'd called him by name—they both knew it.

Above her, he went utterly still. But then it was like something burst inside him. He kissed her, his mouth like a hot brand. His fingers laced through hers.

Their hips came together again and again; faster and faster, with a desperation borne of desire and passion and need too long denied. He thrust harder, almost wildly, but Elizabeth gloried in it. Harsh, rasping breaths filled the air, his… and hers.

His fingers slid down her back. He filled his hands with her buttocks. "You're mine," he muttered hotly. "You know that, don't you?"

His possessiveness was thrilling. It sent her hurtling over the edge. Waves of ecstasy broke over her. Whimpers of rapture broke from her lips. His climax scalding his loins, he erupted inside her, bathing her womb with fire.

Afterward his fingers combed idly through the silken tangle of her hair across the pillow. Lazily he propped himself above her on his elbows. Lowering his head, he kissed her, the contact long and lingering. "Mine," he said into her mouth, a sound that reeked of satisfaction. But she didn't mind. No, not at all. Because he was smiling as he said it…

Morgan was the first to fall asleep, a hard arm locked around her waist, his head upon her breast.

He was still smiling.

Elizabeth wept with joy.

«
^
»

Their days were steeped in contentment and serenity, their nights ablaze with passion. Eagerly she surrendered her body, while Morgan gave of himself without restraint. For both of them, it was a time of teaching, a time of discovery, a haven from all the turmoil that had gone before.

Morgan didn't mind her shy exploration. He encouraged it with gentle words and tender whispers. Elizabeth blushed fiercely when she chanced to think of all he had done to her—and she to him! They fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms, their limbs an intimate—and wholly erotic—entanglement. They woke the same way…

And it was usually quite some time before they arose.

For Elizabeth, it was like sunshine spreading a fiery glow deep inside her. Morgan's entire demeanor was more relaxed. He seemed more at ease with himself and with her. The harshness she'd always sensed in him fled as if it had never been. This was a man she hadn't known existed…

A man she could love.

Hope flowered within her. She prayed that these days marked a sign of things to come. If so, marriage to Morgan would not be the struggle she had envisioned. Indeed, it could be so much more… She sent fervent pleas heavenward that it would be so.

While Morgan was out fishing one afternoon, she decided to walk to town. She spent the next few hours wandering among the booths at the local marketplace, pausing over a pretty shawl now and then, exclaiming with delight at a length of tiny seashells fashioned into a necklace.

She was just about to depart for home when she noticed a small booth at the end of the row where there were some dozen or so framed paintings of various sizes. Before them sat a young man wearing a faded shirt and baggy trousers, sketch pad and charcoal in hand.

His brow was furrowed in concentration. She couldn't help but notice that in the little time since she'd observed him, he had darted her several quick, intent glances before turning back to his sketch pad.

Rather intrigued, she started toward him. Intent on his work, he didn't notice her until she stepped up beside him. "I do hope you don't mind," she said brightly, leaning over to see what he was sketching.

It was her.

Elizabeth blinked. She'd left her hair loose and tumbling down her back, swept back from her forehead with a plain white ribbon. The expression she wore was faintly wistful.

The young man smiled weakly. "And I hope
you
don't mind."

She nodded at the paintings behind him. "You're quite talented."

"Thank you."

One by one she studied the paintings. But it was the last one on which her gaze lingered, that of a graceful clipper ship upon the sea. Standing on the bow was the likeness of a man, strong hands gripping the rail, booted legs braced wide apart, his profile lifted to the wind.

What was it Morgan had said?
What I loved most was leaving port, the power of the ship gathering speed, watching the bow cleave the waves, hearing the sails clap like thunder. There was nothing like it—feeling the breeze in my hair, my skin scraped by the wind, the scent of brine heavy in the air
.

She couldn't help but catch her breath. The artist had captured all the sleek majesty of the vessel, the wild turmoil of the seas, the dynamic pride of the captain.

In a trice she found herself standing before it. "This is lovely," she breathed. "So lifelike. You must have sailed many, many times."

The man chuckled. "A few," he admitted. "But I prefer solid ground beneath my feet. My father's the sailor in the family. He's one of the local fishermen."

Elizabeth clasped her hands together impulsively. "How much is it?" Her thoughts were already speeding forward. She had a few coins with her, but she hadn't spent a single penny of the allowance Morgan had deposited for her. Once they were back in Boston, perhaps she could send back with the money.

"You'd like to buy it?"

"Oh, yes! Very much." She sighed. "But I'm afraid I have very little money with me. I'm from Boston, here on holiday with my husband. But if you could hold it for several days, I could send my husband's driver back with the remainder of the purchase price."

The young man stroked his jaw. "Well, it was rather forward of me to sketch you without your knowing it." He paused. "Tell you what. How about a trade of sorts? The painting is yours if you'll sit for a while and let me finish my sketch."

"Done!" Elizabeth very nearly squealed in delight. "Though I must say, I think I got the better bargain."

The artist grinned broadly, pleased with his deal. He introduced himself as Andrew. They shook hands and then he pointed her to a stool, with the coastline at her back.

Half an hour later, Elizabeth strode away, the painting wrapped in brown paper, hugged like a prize to her breast.

Morgan was sauntering up the beach when she arrived back at the cottage. Her heart tripped at the very sight of him. His hair tousled by the wind, he was barefoot and shirtless, the legs of his trousers rolled up to just below his knees.

"You look nothing like you did the day we met," she teased. Her gaze swept up and down the length of him. He had stopped on the step below her, and still she had to tilt her head far back in order to meet his eyes. "Why, I could easily imagine you a pirate, especially now that I know you were a sailor."

"A pirate?" His half smile made her toes curl. "Elizabeth, you wound me. How could you even consider me so nefarious?"

"Come to think of it, I do believe it fits! Why, my knees were shaking every time you spoke to me!"

He smiled—or did he? "Of course, there's no mistaking you for anything but what you are."

Elizabeth glanced at him sharply. As offhand as he sounded, she thought she detected… what? Regret? Sadness?

"And what is that?" she asked brightly.

"A lady." Lean hands settled on her waist. He gazed down at her. "
My
lady."

His husky tone thrilled her, clear to the very bottom of her feet. He had only to look at her and she felt giddy and weak.

His eyes had dropped to the package she still held tucked against her breast. "What did you buy?"

"I can't tell you," she said promptly.

"Oh, come now. I'd like to see if I approve of your taste."

"I certainly hope you do!" Her eyes sparkled. "I saw it and thought immediately of you. I knew then I just
had
to have it."

One rakish brow arose. "This sounds rather fascinating." His expression warmed. "Why don't you go put it on and we'll see, hmmm?"

Her lips twitched in secret amusement. "Oh, it's not for me. It's for you."

"For me!" He was clearly astonished. "Why?"

She smiled at his dumbfounded amazement. "Must there be a reason?"

Something flitted across his features, something she couldn't quite place. It was gone in a heartbeat. "Well, then," he said, "why can't you tell me what it is?"

"Because you're simply going to have to see for yourself." She settled herself on the top step of the porch and patted the space beside her. He sat, and she pressed her gift into his hands.

He hesitated… forever, it seemed! Indeed, she wondered if he had any intention of opening it. At last he began to unwrap the paper slowly—almost awkwardly, she would always remember thinking.

At last he held the painting in his hands. But his reaction was hardly what she had hoped for. No smile of pleasure creased the hard line of his lips. He simply stared, motionless for what seemed like an eternity.

She swallowed a pang. He didn't like it, she realized, and she had been so certain he would! She blinked back stupid, foolish tears, feeling crushed inside, but determined not to show it.

"Oh dear, I-I'm very sorry, Morgan. It was presumptuous of me to assume you would like it." Her smile would surely make her face crack. "I'll take it back. Better yet, why don't
you
do it? That way you'll be certain to have something you like."