The sight devastated him.
Her sketchbook lay open on her lap, ignored. He felt sweat break out on his brow, a sheen slick his bare chest. Her gaze was fastened on the front of the trousers he'd yet to open, on the obvious bulge straining against them. He knew it was only a matter of time before that sketchbook was on the floor and they were in each other's arms. A short time.
Maybe he should just tell her the facts, tell her they had no future together, cut this off before it got out of hand.
No, he couldn't tell her, not until she'd finished the portrait. The knowledge wouldn't just cut this off; it would devastate her. He was devastated already, so he knew exactly how she would feel. Completely, utterly devastated.
And she wouldn't be able to paint.
THIRTY-SEVEN
CORINNA COULDN'T sketch. She could only stare. She felt a heat beginning to build in her, and she wanted nothing more than to leap across the space between them. And Sean wanted her too, didn't he? More than he wanted to breathe, he'd said last night, and hadn't hearing that melted her to the consistency of fresh paint?
Just like she felt melted now.
The big glass of wine had gone to her head, and she licked her lips, feeling a bit woozy. The sketchbook slid to the floor as she leaned over to pull off her slippers.
"What are you doing?" Sean murmured.
She didn't quite know what she was doing, so she didn't answer. Instead she reached beneath her skirts and untied one garter and then the other, dropping the lace-trimmed ribbons atop her discarded shoes.
She could scarcely believe she was acting so wanton. It had to be the Dutch courage, because she'd never been the beguiling sister. That was Juliana's role. But suddenly she remembered Juliana demonstrating something she called the look, a practiced flirtation so contrived Corinna had never been able to imagine herself doing it. Now she glanced down and then swept her gaze up, looking at Sean full on as she curved her lips very slowly in a deliberately seductive smile.
His pupils dilated, and she saw his breathing quicken.
Seduction was so much easier than she'd ever thought it would be.
Maybe it was the wine, but she thought it was also Sean. He was so seductive himself that any woman would feel seductive around him. Every word he said in that lyrical Irish voice seeped right into her, dissolving her bones. She hadn't even touched him yet, nor had he touched her, but her blood was already sluicing through her in a seductive rhythm.
Soft afternoon light slanted through the north-facing windows, illuminating his sculpted face, glinting off the slight dark stubble that had grown since he'd shaved this morning. Her fingers itched to stroke that roughness, that glorious maleness, just as her body yearned to press against him, to mold her curves to his muscled form.
She drew the hem of her dress up to rest on her knees and began rolling down a stocking, watching Sean's face. What she saw there made the heat build more. He was watching her with the most impassioned look, like in Children of the Abbey, a look more intoxicating than any wine. She pulled the stocking off of her foot and dropped it to the floor and started on the other.
Transfixed, Sean stood riveted in place, staring at the pile of satin and lace and silk that was building up. He knew he should stop her, but he couldn't seem to make himself move. She drew the second stocking off her foot, baring her toes. Small toes they were, pale and tender-looking. Imagining sucking on them, he thought he might die. He looked up to her bare, curvy calves and died a little more. He raised his gaze to her naked knees, and saw the hem of her dress rucked up there, and imagined her wearing a gauzy bit of a shift under it. Or a chemise, as the highborn called it. A gauzy, enticing chemise.
He tried to take another swallow of wine, but his glass was empty.
What was he doing? He couldn't tell her he couldn't marry her, so he had to keep his wits about him. He had to fight this. He shouldn't be imagining what was under her dress; he shouldn't be imagining anything. Feeling light-headed, he carefully set down the glass. He wouldn't allow her to refill it.
"Sean," she said in a tone so husky it made his breath catch. She rose and walked close, so close he felt heat shimmering between them. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she turned his head to face her.
All over again, her blue eyes devastated him.
"Are you all right, Sean?"
He wasn't all right, no. He was growing so hard he was in pain. He was dying.
"Sean," she breathed, moving her fingers on his face so gently he wondered that he could feel it. But he did feel it, so strongly the feeling seemed to permeate his body. She shifted and leaned closer, arching herself toward him. "Oh, God, Sean, I want you to kiss me."
Oh, God, Sean thought. He could see down her dress.
Sacred heart of Jesus.
There was a gauzy chemise under it, just as he'd imagined. Beneath that, her breasts looked high and round and firm, making him want to touch them. Hell, he didn't just want to touch them—he wanted to rip off her dress and fasten his mouth on them. She leaned closer, and he could see their rosy tips strain against the chemise like he was straining against his trousers. Her scent swamped him, and she raised her other hand to cradle his face, and then…
He kissed her. It was a defensive move, because he couldn't stare down her dress a moment longer without exploding. But he was lost the moment his lips touched hers.
Lost in the kiss, lost in her, lost in his
