Chapter 17
… yes, of course. Francesca is a wonder. But you already knew that, didn’t you?
–
Michael wasn’t certain when it had become apparent to him that he would have to seduce her. He’d tried to appeal to her mind, to her innate sense of the practical and wise, and it wasn’t working.
And it couldn’t be about emotion, because that, he knew, was one-sided.
So it would have to be passion.
He wanted her-Oh, God, he wanted her. With an intensity he hadn’t even imagined before he’d kissed her the week previous in London. But even as his blood raced with desire and need and, yes, love, his mind was sharp and calculating, and he knew that if he was to bind her to him, he would need to do it with this. He would have to claim her in a way she could not deny. He couldn’t just try to convince her with words and thoughts and ideas. She could attempt to talk herself out of that, pretend the feelings weren’t there.
But if he made her his, left his imprint on her in the most physical way possible, he would be with her always.
And she would be his.
She slipped out from beneath his fingers, edging backward until she’d put a few paces between them.
“Don’t you want another kiss, Francesca?” he murmured, moving toward her with predatory grace.
“It was a mistake,” she said, her voice shaky. She scooted back a few inches farther, stopping only when she bumped into the edge of a table.
He moved forward. “Not if we marry.”
“I can’t marry you, you know that.”
He took her hand, idly rubbed the skin with his thumb. “And why is that?”
“Because I… you… you’re you.”
“True,” he said, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing her palm. Then he flicked his tongue along her wrist, just because he could. “And for the first time in a very long while,” he said, glancing up at her through his lashes, “there is no one I’d rather be just now.”
“Michael…” she whispered, arching backwards.
But she wanted him. He could hear it in her breath.
“Michael no, or Michael yes?” he murmured, kissing the inside of her elbow.
“I don’t know,” she moaned.
“Fair enough.” He moved higher, nudging at her chin until she had no choice but to loll back.
And he had no choice but to make love to her neck.
He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, sparing no inch of skin his sensual onslaught. He moved up to the line of her jaw, then over to her earlobe, then back down to the edge of her bodice, grasping it between his teeth. He heard
Francesca gasp, but she didn’t tell him to stop, so he just pulled and pulled and pulled until one breast popped free.
God, he loved current women’s fashions.
“Michael?” she whispered.
“Shhh.” He didn’t want to have to answer any questions. He didn’t want her thinking enough to ask one.
He ran his tongue along the underside of her breast, tasting the salty-sweet essence of her skin, then reached out and cupped her. He’d touched her through her dress the first time they’d kissed, and he’d thought that was heaven, but nothing compared to the feel of her, hot and bare, in his hand.
“Oh, my,” she moaned. “Oh…”
He blew lightly on her nipple. “Shall I kiss you?” He looked up. He knew he was taking a chance with this, waiting for her answer. He probably shouldn’t even have posed the question, but even though his intent was to seduce, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it without at least one affirmative word from her.
“Shall I?” he murmured again, sweetening the deal with one light flick of his tongue across her nipple.
“Yes!” she burst out. “Yes, for God’s sake, yes!”
He smiled. Slowly, languidly, savoring the moment. And then, after letting her quiver with anticipation for one second longer than was probably fair, he leaned in and took her into his mouth, pouring years and years of desire onto the one breast, centering it wickedly onto one innocent nipple.
She wasn’t going to stand a chance.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, grasping the edge of the table for purchase as her entire body arched back. “Oh, my God. Oh, Michael. Oh, my God.”
He took advantage of her passion to slide his hands around her hips and lift her up until she was seated on the table, her legs parting for him as he stepped into their feminine cradle.
Satisfaction raced through his veins, even as his body screamed for its own pleasure. He loved that he could do this to her, make her scream and moan and cry out with desire. She was so strong, always so cool and composed, and yet right now she was simply and purely his, a slave to her own needs, captive to his expert touch.
He kissed, he licked, he nibbled, he tugged. He tortured her until he thought she might explode. Her breath was loud and gasping, and her moans had grown more and more incoherent.
And all the while his hands were moving silently up her legs, first grasping her ankles, then her calves, pushing her skirts up and up, until they settled in a rumpled pool above her knees.
And it was only then that he pulled away and gave her a hint of a reprieve.
She looked at him, her eyes glazed, her lips pink and parted. She didn’t say anything; he didn’t think she
“I thought it would be cruel to torture it any longer,” he said, lightly taking her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
She groaned.
“You like that.” It was a statement, and not a particularly sophisticated one, but this was Francesca, not some nameless woman he was tupping while he closed his eyes and imagined her face. And every time she mewled with pleasure his heart raced with joy. “You like it,” he said again, smiling with satisfaction.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
He leaned in until his lips were brushing her ear. “You’ll like this, too.”
“What?” she asked, surprising him with her query.
He’d thought she was too far gone to question him aloud.
He nudged her skirts a little higher, just enough so that there was no danger of them falling off her lap. “You want to hear it, don’t you?” he murmured, sliding his hands until they were just above her knees. He squeezed her thighs gently, circling against her skin with his thumbs. “You want to know.”
She nodded.
He moved toward her again, lightly touching his lips to hers, close enough to feel her, yet far enough to speak. “You were always so curious,” he murmured. “You asked so many questions.”
He slid his lips along her cheek to her ear, whispering all the way. “Michael,” he said, softening his voice to mimic hers, “tell me something naughty. Tell me something wicked.”
She blushed. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, sense the hot rush of blood to her skin.
“But I never told you what you wanted to hear, did I?” he asked, lightly nipping at her earlobe. “I always left you outside the bedroom door.”
He paused, not because he expected an answer, just because he wanted to hear her breathe.
“Did you wonder?” he whispered. “Did you leave me and wonder what I hadn’t told you?” He leaned in, just so she’d feel his lips move whisper-light against her ear. “Did you want to know,” he whispered, “what I did when I was wicked?”
