The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief) by Barbara Monajem Read Free Book Online Page A

again, longer, deeper, while his member
pressed hard against her, and want and need and desire built and built within
her. He cupped her buttocks and squeezed them, then slipped between her thighs
to the hot wetness of her core. “My beautiful Peony,” he breathed, “my lovely
flower,” and his fingers made her whimper and squirm, helpless against the
onslaught of pleasure.
    He rolled her over beneath him, moving lower to nuzzle and lick
her breasts. She writhed under him, wanting more and more...and got it, for he
had freed his member from his breeches, and its firm heat pressed against her,
pushed gently, insistently at her core, played up and down her privates and
pushed again, and then he was inside her.
    Oh, the pleasure of their joining, the throbbing of her core,
the slight withdrawal of his member, making her moan, and then another, harder
push, and he was deep in her, deep inside. They were one.
    For a long, long moment he didn’t move, gazing down at her,
breathing hard, and she wondered if that was all there was to it. She didn’t
feel complete; she writhed and panted beneath him, wanting more, even as he held
absolutely still.
    He released a long sigh and began to move, pushing in, pulling
out, drawing his member against her sweetest spot, and she heard her own wanton
cries of delight and didn’t care, it was so good and so perfect and so right.
She broke at last in a spasm of throbbing so strong she soared.
    With a harsh, rasping breath, he pulled out of her and spilled
his seed onto her thigh.
    He collapsed next to her, cradling her in one arm, and kissed
her hair again. They lay still, not speaking, their mingled breathing loud
against the silence of the night.
    After a while he cleared his throat. “You were a virgin.”
    “Yes,” she whispered, and realized why he’d said it. “I told
you I didn’t have a lover.”
    “I didn’t believe you,” he said. “If I’d known...” He didn’t
end his sentence.
    She didn’t need him to. “You wouldn’t have done this.”
    “No, of course not.” His voice was strained. “It wouldn’t have
been right.” He sat up, running his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I should
have known better, but everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of that.” He
pulled up his breeches and buttoned them.
    The cold and damp of the meadow seeped into her, and she began
to shiver. What did he mean?
    He reached to draw the bodice of her gown over her bosom again,
but she pushed his hand away and did it herself. He stood, putting out a hand to
help her up. She took it reluctantly and withdrew it as soon as she was on her
feet.
    “Lucasta and I agreed that we would rupture the engagement
early if either of us chose to do so,” he said. “We’ll make an announcement
tomorrow morning, after which I shall be free to ask your father for your
hand.”
    “No,” she said. “No, you mustn’t.” She whirled away from him
toward the pathway into the wood, stumbled, caught up her skirts and headed for
the house.
    He grabbed his coat and followed her. “Of course I must.”
    “No! You don’t love me. You don’t want to marry me.”
    “Yes, I do,” he said.
    * * *
    Astonishingly, he meant it. Thank God he’d been bored
enough in London to agree to visit the Priory, or he might never have met
her—finally, a woman with whom he wanted to spend his life. Strange, because
he’d always imagined that the woman with the courage of her convictions who
would also depend on him would share his own view of the world, but Peony
certainly didn’t... And yet, it didn’t seem to matter. She was who she was, and
he loved her. “I do want to marry you, Peony.”
    “No, you don’t.” She hastened away again. “It’s the magic
talking.” She left the woods, crossed a strip of open land and well-nigh
sprinted into the orchard. “It’s not real.” She tossed the words over her
shoulder at him like noxious little gnats in the night. “I didn’t understand
what