FASCINATED
Kensington Brava
ISBN: 1-57566-606-5
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Prequel: The Lady's Tutor
MAN AND A WOMAN
Robin Schone
Hoping to experience once again the intimacies shared with a man, widowed Megan Branwell engages in a charade with Connor Treffrey that will take them both on a breathless journey of indescribable pleasure.
Excerpt
Megan stepped out of the circle of her gown onto cold, unyielding wood.
The darkness throbbed with sexual heat.
She took one step forward. Her breasts lightly bounced.
Would he take pleasure in their fullness?
She took a second step forward. Her hips gently swayed. Would he find them lacking?
She took a third step forward, thigh rubbing thigh, friction building, chest constricting.
The teasing aroma of exotic spice enveloped her. Out of the corners of her eyes she espied the faint, red glimmer of burning coals.
Why couldn't she see him?
A grain of dirt gritted beneath her left heel. Her right knee collided with ungiving bone and sinew--a naked leg, a muscled leg, a leg that was far smoother than her own. At the same time her foot came down on--a foot.
Moist air scorched her skin. "You smell of vinegar."
Megan froze, held immobile by the impact of his leg, the weight of her foot on his, the heat of his breath, and the jarring repercussion of his words.
Never had she imagined that a man would notice . . . or comment on . . . a prostitute's use of a prophylactic.
And perhaps an Englishman would not have noticed; or having done so, he would have courteously refrained from commenting.
"I . . ." She swallowed, acutely aware of his bare foot underneath hers and her breasts that jutted out from her chest, only inches away from his mouth. "I have inside me a . . . a sponge that is soaked in vinegar."
"There is no need for that," he said brusquely. "I have prepared myself with a French letter."
The tin on the nightstand--did it contain more French letters?
Did the prostitute whom Megan had replaced rely upon a man to protect her?
Did she use a solution which smelled more pleasing than vinegar?
Did she use a syringe after intimacy, rather than inserting a sponge before?
Exactly what did a man from Arabia expect from a woman that an Englishman would not?
"Nevertheless, this is the form of protection which I chose to use," Megan said with a calm certainty that she was far from feeling.
Chill awareness traveled up her ankles. He could yet reject her, this Arab who was as terse as any Cornishman.
Megan nervously shifted her right foot, cautiously lowered it. Her toes butted the tips of his. The wooden floor was icy; the heat emanating from his digits was scorching.
"I have never been with an English woman," he said shortly.
Electricity crackled around them, as if a storm brewed outside.
It did not.
She realized that the ragged soughing of air came not from one pair of lungs, but two. They breathed in unison.
"I dare say women are much the same, regardless of their nationality," she said carefully.
But were men? . . .
Her heartbeat clocked the passing seconds. It pulsated inside her breasts, her temples, her vagina, her toes that bridged his.
Why didn't he touch her, take her? . . .
"I have never been with a woman."