The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

toeing off her boots, she straightened, but her eyes went wary at the way he was staring at her. “What is it?”
    “I like looking at you.”
    “Nothing new to see here.”
    “Maybe that’s part of it.” He framed her face, then combed his fingers through her hair, drawing it back and away. “I know this face,” he said quietly, “as well as I know my own. I can conjure it up in my mind, the way it runs from cheek to jaw.” He skimmed his lips along the sweep. “The shape and color of the eyes, and the moods of them.”
    Just now, he noted, the mood was surprised, and not a little uneasy. “The mouth,” he continued, brushing it lightly, retreating just as hers softened. “The curves and dips of it. Such a lovely face. I don’t mind looking at it, even when you’re not around.”
    “That’s an odd thing to . . .” She trailed off as he brought his mouth back to hers, lingered there.
    “Then there’s the rest of you.” He skimmed his hands down, a light play of fingers. Then captured her hands before she could tug the sweater off. “No, let me.” He drew her to her feet, lifting the sweater, inch by inch. “It gives me pleasure to uncover you, to work my way through the layers to that amazing body of yours. It drives me mad the way you cover it up.”
    She might have gaped if she hadn’t been so busy just trying to breathe. “It does?”
    “I keep thinking, I know what’s under all that.” He loosened the hook of her trousers. “I’ve had that under me.” He let the trousers drop, pool at her feet. “Step out of those, darling,” he murmured, and toyed with the hem of her undershirt.
    “I’m built like a twelve-year-old boy.”
    “As one who’s been a twelve-year-old boy . . .” He slipped the undershirt over her head, then let his gaze run down her. “I can promise you that’s not the case. Milkmaid’s skin and strong shoulders.” He dipped his head, touching his lips to one, then the other. “And here.” Slowly, he trailed his hands from her waist to cup her breasts. Her breath caught, released, shuddered. “Soft and firm and sensitive.”
    She started to drift along, to cruise on the wonderful slide of his hands. Then gasped, half in shock, half in amusement, when he lifted her, stood her on the little chest.
    But the humor that sparked in her eyes went dark when he closed his mouth over her breast, caught her nipple delicately between his teeth. “Oh, God.”
    “I want you to come.” He traced a finger along the edge of cotton that still covered her, and his mouth worked down. “I want you to call out my name when you do.” And slipped his finger under the cotton, inside her where she was already hot, already wet.
    She rocked against him, a jerk of movement while her fingers dug into his shoulders. Pleasure rushed into her so fast it was almost a panic, built so high, so huge, she wondered her body could survive it.
    And it was his name she called out.
    Was she falling or flying? She felt her legs give way, like a melting of bone, tried to center herself again when she felt him lift her, carry her to the side of the bed.
    “The light.”
    He laid her on the bed, knelt over her. “We’ll see each other clearly this way. This time.” Watching her, he took off his shirt. “Do you know how arousing it is to know I can take you up, again and again? That you have that much inside you for me?”
    She reached for him, drew him to her. “I want you inside me.”
    “And I want you weak first.” His mouth began to taste, his hands to roam. “And sobbing my name.”
    “You bastard.” The fact that she said it on a moan delighted him. “Just try to make me.”
    He thought it a lovely challenge, and set about meeting it.
    His hands were light as faerie wings one moment, hard as iron the next. And each touch was a separate thrill. He had a way about him that she’d never imagined when she’d fantasized about having him for a lover. The men she’d known before him hadn’t given her this, or lured her into giving so much back. There was a freedom here, with him. That odd mix of wicked surprise with easy recognition.
    And trust. Absolute trust.
    She opened herself to him willingly. Perhaps with his skill she’d have been helpless to do otherwise, but she was willing to take all he offered, and to match it.
    Even as shocks of sensation lanced through her, she yielded. It was a surrender she’d given to no other.
    As if he sensed it, he took her up again, slowly