Quicksilver - Amanda Quick [36]
She was so sensitive that even the light touch sent tiny shock waves through her. She sucked in a sharp breath, not certain if what she felt was pain or pleasure. His hand stilled instantly.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked against her mouth.
“No.” She pulled back a little and then leaned close again to drop a feather-light kiss on the side of his hard jaw. “It is just that I have never felt anything quite like this sensation.”
“Neither have I.”
The earnest declaration amused her. “There is no need to pretend that you are inexperienced in such matters, Owen. You are a man of the world.”
“This is different.” The statement was flat, categorical, not open to debate. “You are different. You are the one.”
In spite of the currents of passion that had inflamed her senses, the familiar flicker of intuition tingled through her. This man is dangerous.
“The one?” she repeated, baffled. “I do not understand what you mean.”
“Never mind.” He picked her up in his arms, lifting her free of the pool of skirts and petticoats. “This is not the time for explanations.”
The room spun around her. He carried her to the large leather reading chair. Just before he sank down into the depths of the chair with her in his arms, she caught another glimpse of their reflections in the mirror. Energy flashed and sparked like hot sunlight in the depths of the looking glass.
And then she found herself draped across Owen’s strong thighs, her stocking-clad legs dangling over the padded arm of the big chair. In the firelight Owen’s face was taut with passion and something akin to hunger. He kissed her again, a slow, intoxicating kiss.
While he held her in thrall with the kiss, he explored her body with his free hand, touching her as though she were the rarest and most valuable work of art ever created. She gave herself up to the sensual storm that was breaking over her, engulfing her.
She was aware of his palm gliding down her leg, but she was occupied with the kiss and did not pay close attention until she felt his hand slip beneath the hem of her chemise. A moment later she realized that his fingers were on the inside of her thigh.
“So soft,” he growled against her mouth.
She knew then what he intended, but she was torn between shock and wonder. He cupped her gently. She tensed, her fingers twisting in the expensive white linen of his shirt.
He tore his mouth away from her lips and kissed her throat. “I want to feel you melt for me.”
This is the night, she thought. She was on the edge of exploring the great mystery she had yearned to discover with the right man. At last the secrets of passion were being revealed to her. She would not turn back now.
He probed deeper with his fingers. Everything inside her seemed to be liquefying. She clutched the front of Owen’s shirt, crushing the fabric, hardly able to catch her breath. A great restlessness and a sense of urgency consumed her. The tension caused her whole body to tighten.
“Owen.” She twisted in his arms, needing more. “Owen.”
“I’m here,” he said. It was a vow.
He lifted her again. This time he settled her astride, her knees gripping him on either side of his thighs. She did not understand what he intended until she looked down and discovered that somehow he had managed to open his trousers. The size of his engorged shaft shocked her senses all over again.
She had seen nude statues of the male figure. She and Charlotte had pored over the lascivious drawings of couples engaged in intercourse in the books that Charlotte kept tucked away in a locked closet. But nothing had prepared her for this.
Fascinated, she reached down and touched him lightly.
Owen groaned and half closed his eyes. “Ahh, my sweet, have a care.”
“Did I hurt you?” she asked, horrified.
“No.” His mouth curved at the edges. “But I am very sensitive to your touch, Virginia Dean. You have a great deal of power over me.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He stopped smiling. The heat in his aura and his eyes seemed to intensify.
“It’s the truth,” he said. “I have known that from the start. I need you, Virginia.”