When he returns, he lays down with his full length next to hers.
This close, Emma sees the glow from the candle’s flame reflected in the molten depths of his eyes. She can’t help but notice how muscular his shoulders are, how full his lips look. She lets her gaze slip lower, to the rest of his body, noticing how his abs ripple down past the edge of the towel still draped around his waist.
He pulls his head back slightly to look into her eyes. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes as his lips meet hers.
Emma responds in kind. His mouth is so warm, the caress of his lips softer than she imagined. She ignites when he tastes her lips tentatively with his tongue. Emma opens her mouth with a low moan. She feels his hand slip up and down her side, unwittingly hiking the edge of the towel up with every pass. She sees in Mick’s eyes when that realization dawns on him, and he slides his hand behind and cups her firm, round bottom.
Emma’s heart skips a beat as her entire body roars to life, eager for his touch.
His eyes are warm as they study her, and she feels her cheeks flush in response.
He moves his hand to the small of her back and draws her close. His mouth brushes hers, retreats, then brushes again.
Gazing into his green eyes, dark with intensity, Emma’s about to speak, but before she can utter a sound, his long forefinger touches her lips, then he covers her mouth with his in a hungry kiss—a long, slow, lazy kiss. His tongue traces the outline of her lips, and she opens her mouth to him, her tongue dancing with his.
As the storm outside temporarily abates, it gains momentum inside Austen cottage.
After loosening the tuck in her towel, Mick pulls it aside, revealing her beautiful breasts. His eyes, warm to the point of smoldering, take in the view. He uses the pad of his index finger to trace an imaginary line from her temple, down her cheek, neck, and collarbone, then over the soft mound of her breast where he caresses the pink-tipped bud.
With a light touch of her thumb, she explores his lips before falling back to clear the way. Emma hears the catch in his breath, feels its warmth against her mouth. Yet she holds back, not quite kissing, sampling the excitement to be gained from waiting.
“Mmm, you smell good. Taste good,” Mick says between lips that cruise up Emma’s neck and skim her jaw before settling on her mouth. He drinks from her, his mouth languid, his tongue teasing, as she sinks her hands in his hair to keep him there.
Emma presses against him and moans into his mouth.
Mick gets the message. He shifts his weight, lifts her so that she’s on top, pressed against the length of him.
“You’re strong,” she says, peppering tiny kisses all over his face.
“You’re light.” His dark hair rubs against her face as he raises his to kiss her neck, nibbling the sensitive flesh.
Oh, the man can kiss! So slow, so soft, so decadent. She cups his stubble-shadowed face in her hands and pauses his mouth’s exploration to search his eyes. Deep green and naked with emotion, she sees what she hoped to find. Then her lips meet his, warm and wet with a whispered taste of wild blackberry.
Mick’s lips touch her skin, igniting a quick flash of heat. When his tongue makes a trail across her collarbone, then caresses the silken divot in her throat, she shudders, setting loose a warm ribbon of need that unfurls in her stomach.
Fueled by desire, Emma untucks what remained of his barely-there towel. That’s when she notices the silver scar on his hip.
Mick’s eyes narrow as her finger traces the raised scar.
“Does it hurt?”
“The skin over my hip used to feel like it was burned, branded by a hot poker. The surgeon said the scar would calm down—the color—but he couldn’t make promises about the pain. Some people find that wounds continue to throb for years. I’m fortunate.”
Emma’s heart nearly bursts from joy when Mick whispers, “I can’t take it anymore.”
She absorbs his warmth as he wraps himself around her—arms circling her shoulders, legs wound around hers—“Hold on,” she feels him say into her neck as he rolls them both over, then braces himself above her with outstretched arms.
Emma sees his eyes, dark with desire, study her still-damp, deep red hair, fanned out across the pillow with abandon like a wanton stroke from a painter’s brush. Her heart catches in her throat when Mick looks into her eyes. “Emma, I want you.”
“I want you, too,” she breathes.
She loves it when his lips graze her cheeks, her chin, and the tip of her nose. She parts her lips in a warm invitation, and Mick surrenders to his own ardent need. Her eyes encourage him as he lowers himself into her waiting arms, his body covering hers. A perfect fit. His hand traverses her skin, paying homage to her naked body.
Emma is struck again by the firmness of him, his long, lean length. Electricity shoots through her with every feather-light touch.
As his mouth takes possession of her lips, now swollen from his welcome attention, Emma runs her hands along his back, her fingers finding more raised scars. She moans into his kiss as his hips press into hers, and her body, excited by his presence, answers his. She is, she realizes, unmoored by his touch.
Mick shifts so he can cradle Emma. They doze, still wrapped together, still content. His heart beats against the softness of her back. When he’s sure she’s asleep, he repositions himself so that he can see her face. Her hair is tumbled onto her cheek, her lips unpainted and just parted.
Pull yourself together, Mick. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Emma’s as though he can make her calmness sink into him by sheer
