My One True Love by Deborah Small

Author:Deborah Small
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Edwardian, Aristocrat, Mystery, American South, Single Dad
Publisher: Delphinus Books
Published: 2021-01-24T00:00:00+00:00

JOE EASED UP WITH HIS tongue as she convulsed in his hands, soft gasps escaping her with each twitch. When he drew away, she fell limp momentarily before disentangling her hands from his hair to sink into the mattress. Very gently, he planted a kiss on her swollen flesh, eliciting another shuddering gasp as her thighs flexed inward.

Smiling, he remained on his knees, admiring the slender length of her body, from the unruly patch of brilliant red hair between her creamy thighs to the perfect crescents of her breasts tipped with dusky-pink nipples.

She was beautiful, if too thin in his opinion. Her hip bones formed sharp points either side of the taut concavity of her lower abdomen, which sloped sharply to her narrow, heaving ribcage. Eyes closed and red hair like wild flames around her head, fingers curled into the bed covers, she was a perfect portrait of sexual abandon.

The fierce ache in his groin intensified. It took every ounce of his reserve not to tear off his breeches and drive into her with the blind madness of a rutting boar.

As though sensing his thoughts, her eyes snapped open, and she tilted to look at him, green eyes sensual slits and cheeks flushed. She started to roll to her side, but he stopped her with a hand on each hip bone. When she met his gaze with a frown, he smiled and held out his hands.

She hesitated before reluctantly accepting his help.

Easing her upwards, he tugged her to the edge of the mattress, and cupped her face.

“Good night,” he whispered.

“What? No—”

“Yes.” He kissed her mouth to silence her protest, and before he could change his mind, he grabbed the bottle off the bed and headed for the door.

“But...what about you?” Her voice was soft, bewildered, the most hesitant he’d heard it since the day they met. It drove through him like a spike.

He paused, hand on the doorknob. “This isn’t about me,” he rasped. “Or even you.”

A rustling sound alerted him to movement behind him, and a moment later, she laid a palm on his back.

He closed his eyes and inhaled against the urge to swing around, carry her to the bed, and explore her delicate frame in exquisite detail. Trace every contour and valley with his lips, count every freckle with a kiss, unravel every red-gold curl.

“If it’s not about me or you,” she whispered, “then who? We are the only ones here—”

“No. We’re not.” He faced her but kept his hands at his sides, the one holding the whisky almost melded to the glass by the force of his hold. “We’re not the only ones here. This house is full of people. So is this land—”

“I’m talking about right now.” She’d sheathed herself with the satin coverlet, its shimmery material pooling on the rug around her feet like sea water. With her fiery curls tumbled over her pale shoulders to cover the small but firm mounds of her breasts hidden below the green satin, she looked much as he imagined a mythical mermaid would—a very beautiful, fragile, and faintly annoyed mermaid.

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