Catherine Coulter - Legacy Trilogy 03 by The Valentine Legacy

Author:The Valentine Legacy
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Published: 2011-11-25T23:51:05+00:00

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“No, I didn’t do this yesterday. We were lunching on a rock, not a table. I don’t even remember yesterday.” He moaned when she arched a bit. “Wrap your legs around my waist, Jessie. No, don’t look at me as if I’ve lost my wits. Just trust me. That’s right, lock your ankles behind my back. Ah, that’s good.” Now he leaned over her and began kissing her again. Her wonderful gown buttoned up the front, the heavens be praised. He kept kissing her as he pulled each of those rotten little buttons out of its loop.

Damnation, there had to be two hundred of them. He ran out of patience and ripped the last few free. He came up a bit over her and opened her gown. Maggie had struck again, he thought, both shocked and inordinately aroused by the sight of a peach satin chemise bordered with the most wicked little snippets of lace imaginable, none of the lace covering much of anything, just framing those breasts of hers that were the new Jessie’s breasts, not the old Jessie’s.

His hand hovered. Her breasts were rising and falling, looking as delicious and white as the frosting of the wedding cake Badger had baked and decorated until the wee hours of the morning the night before their wedding. Lightly he touched his fingers to her left breast. He closed his eyes and let his fingers trace over her flesh, warm flesh, warm Jessie flesh. Surely she hadn’t always looked like this, all white and full and round, arching up, staring at him as if he were a god from some ancient and exciting myth come to earth to claim her. Suddenly, with no invitation at all, he saw her as she’d been on a long-ago night when he’d come over with a bottle of port to her father’s tack room to toast his racing victory of that day.

She’d been sitting cross-legged in a rickety chair next to her father’s desk, dressed in the most disreputable old shirt and breeches he’d ever seen, wearing no shoes, just thick black socks that he was certain had holes. Her hair was plastered down to her head and yanked back in a severe braid. Then she’d said in that snide, bratty voice, “Papa said I could stay a moment to greet the loser. I beat you but good today, James. You lost all your concentration in that second race, nearly fell off your poor horse’s back when that jockey tried to kick you. I laughed and laughed and won, naturally.” Then she’d stood, still grinning at him. “I’ll keep beating you, James. It’s your fate.” And she’d sauntered out of the tack room like an arrogant boy, her father laughing his damned head off at what she’d said, and James just standing there wanting to tie her up in strong rope and throw her into the Patapsco River.

His fingers stopped caressing that white flesh.

20

“JAMES? WHAT’S WRONG? Are my legs squeezing you too tightly? Am I hurting you?”

“Oh no.

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