A Very Daring Christmas by Charlie Lane

Author:Charlie Lane [Lane, Charlie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WOLF Publishing UG (haftungsbeschränkt)

Chapter Eight

Bram Shaw was devouring Lady Philippa Hampton, and the world spun on an axis of utter perfection.

Naughty Her had left the trunk long ago, blasted it to smithereens. Now no space remained between Pippa and that part of herself, needy and demanding, that pressed her heating core against the leg Bram had slipped between her legs. Every rule she’d ever tattooed into her very skin drained away now like ink washed clean by the rain.

Rain.

She gasped and wrenched away from Bram’s sweet, firm mouth. “It’s raining!”

He stared at her, hellish flames leaping in his eyes, sky-born drops pinging his shoulders and soaking his hair.

“Where’s your hat?” She looked down. Ah, there. She bent her knees to retrieve it because she must have been the one to knock it off in her desperate haste to touch as much of him as she could as quickly as possible. She did not get far, her fingertips stretching, the hat so far out of reach.

Bram hauled her back up and crashed his lips to hers once more.

Who cared for a hat, really? What woman would choose headgear over heated kisses?

His hands wrapped around her hips, digging. It should have felt painful, but sparks of desire ignited her belly, low, low, low. In a place she only felt after fitful dreams that left her hair tangled and her hands caressing, searching for some feeling, some release she could not quite know or understand in the exact place she knew—because Tabitha had told her—that a man would join with her one day.

Join—a word that evoked more than bodies.

She opened her mouth so he could seek deeper. She arched her back to press her hips into the hard, warm center of him.

Very hard.

Very warm.

It made her feel loose, shivering, and frantic, as if she might shiver apart, becoming a volley of the very rain drops that bounced off his coat. She massaged his neck with longing fingers, diving beneath the scarf and cursing the cravat. Cursed her gloves, too, for that matter.

How long had they been apart? Six months? Too long. During that time, she’d felt a bone-deep ache but had not known why. She knew now. She’d ached for him.

Now as she writhed against him, needing closer in order to burrow into his very soul, he gathered her to him like wildflowers from a meadow, fragile and rare, and she scratched her nails over his jaw, curling them under the warm edge of his cravat. She dragged herself away from his lips to taste the rain-drenched scruff of his cheek, lower to where his ragged pulse beat against the delicate skin of his neck.

From there… nowhere else to go.

She groaned. “A cravat is a horrid thing, don’t you think?”

“The devil’s own invention, Pip.”

She laughed, a hiccup of a sound much like the nickname he’d bounced off her. “Pip?”

He gathered her into his arms, and their clothes, soaked by the downpour, melted them together. She shivered.

“We must get you warm,” he mumbled against her ear.

“Doing a fine job of warming me already.

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