My Wicked Fantasy by Karen Ranney

Author:Karen Ranney [Ranney, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, Historical
ISBN: 9780380795819
Google: x3ARnYyLkl0C
Amazon: 0380795817
Barnesnoble: 0380795817
Goodreads: 799267
Publisher: Avon
Published: 1998-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 23

He had felt his soul splinter.

Archer moved his arm from over his eyes, blinked up at the ceiling, forcing it to come into focus.

Had generations of St. John men and women stared at the canopy above his head? Women in childbirth must have studied the starburst pattern in the center. Perhaps a relative or two, male or female, had been lost in lust or bored enough by the act to stare unseeing at the family crest so artfully embroidered above his head.

He rubbed his hand over the bristle of whiskers on his chin, ground the palms of both hands into his eyes. Sleep should come with great good cheer, a reward for a day spent in honest labor. Instead, he was awake, prodded not by the voice of his conscience, but by something else entirely. A sense of wonder so profound that it made him question what he knew of the world.

He rolled to his side, watched her as she slept. She'd screamed. Not a sound of terror, but one of such fulsome completion that he'd felt himself explode inside of her, reaching a depth of sensation he'd never before experienced.

He'd licked those wondrous lips, crooned words of utter nonsense between kisses, palmed her breasts, licked her nipples, pretended that he was not victim to this woman's utter sorcery. But that would have been a lie, and Archer St. John prided himself on telling the truth. He'd begun as experienced, proficient, ended feeling as untried as a virgin youth.

What was there about the look in her eyes that made him want to whisper words of praise? What was there about her lips that made him want to kiss her until night turned to morning? Her green eyes had surprising flecks of brown within them, and gold, too, if one looked hard enough. And there was a mole on her shoulder, as if pointing the way to breasts too luscious to avoid sampling. And her nose was straight, quite autocratic, neither too long nor too short for such a patrician face.

Archer had rarely watched anyone sleep before; it seemed an invasion of the basest kind. Even his wife had not allowed him the delicacy of this moment, the open vulnerability of it. Alice had wished him gone the moment his seed was disgorged, the object of his visit being the fertilization of her womb and nothing more. Even his mistress had declined the intimacy of sleep. Did the jowls soften, a snore emerge from lips only known in passion? Questions he'd never asked, never wished to have answered. How odd that he should think of them now. Even odder that this particular moment was ripe with an intimacy he'd never before experienced.

Mary Kate seemed to enjoy a tyranny of possession, her legs spread wide, her arms cast out, she was a Maltese cross upon the plump mattress, but no less charming for her sprawling slumber.

Her pillow was damp, because she'd wept. Another first, then. He'd never caused a woman to weep with fulfillment.

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