CORINNA COULDN'T sketch. She could only stare. She felt a heat beginning to build in her, and she wanted nothing more than to leap across the space between them. And Sean wanted her too, didn't he? More than he wanted to breathe, he'd said last night, and hadn't hearing that melted her to the consistency of fresh paint?
Just like she felt melted now.
The big glass of wine had gone to her head, and she licked her lips, feeling a bit woozy. The sketchbook slid to the floor as she leaned over to pull off her slippers.
"What are you doing?" Sean murmured.
She didn't quite know what she was doing, so she didn't answer. Instead she reached beneath her skirts and untied one garter and then the other, dropping the lace-trimmed ribbons atop her discarded shoes.
She could scarcely believe she was acting so wanton. It had to be the Dutch courage, because she'd never been the beguiling sister. That was Juliana's role. But suddenly she remembered Juliana demonstrating something she called the look, a practiced flirtation so contrived Corinna had never been able to imagine herself doing it. Now she glanced down and then swept her gaze up, looking at Sean full on as she curved her lips very slowly in a deliberately seductive smile.
His pupils dilated, and she saw his breathing quicken.
Seduction was so much easier than she'd ever thought it would be.
Maybe it was the wine, but she thought it was also Sean. He was so seductive himself that any woman would feel seductive around him. Every word he said in that lyrical Irish voice seeped right into her, dissolving her bones. She hadn't even touched him yet, nor had he touched her, but her blood was already sluicing through her in a seductive rhythm.
Soft afternoon light slanted through the north-facing windows, illuminating his sculpted face, glinting off the slight dark stubble that had grown since he'd shaved this morning. Her fingers itched to stroke that roughness, that glorious maleness, just as her body yearned to press against him, to mold her curves to his muscled form.
She drew the hem of her dress up to rest on her knees and began rolling down a stocking, watching Sean's face. What she saw there made the heat build more. He was watching her with the most impassioned look, like in Children of the Abbey, a look more intoxicating than any wine. She pulled the stocking off of her foot and dropped it to the floor and started on the other.
Transfixed, Sean stood riveted in place, staring at the pile of satin and lace and silk that was building up. He knew he should stop her, but he couldn't seem to make himself move. She drew the second stocking off her foot, baring her toes. Small toes they were, pale and tender-looking. Imagining sucking on them, he thought he might die. He looked up to her bare, curvy calves and died a little more. He raised his gaze to her naked knees, and saw the hem of her dress rucked up there, and imagined her wearing a gauzy bit of a shift under it. Or a chemise, as the highborn called it. A gauzy, enticing chemise.
He tried to take another swallow of wine, but his glass was empty.
What was he doing? He couldn't tell her he couldn't marry her, so he had to keep his wits about him. He had to fight this. He shouldn't be imagining what was under her dress; he shouldn't be imagining anything. Feeling light-headed, he carefully set down the glass. He wouldn't allow her to refill it.
"Sean," she said in a tone so husky it made his breath catch. She rose and walked close, so close he felt heat shimmering between them. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she turned his head to face her.
All over again, her blue eyes devastated him.
"Are you all right, Sean?"
He wasn't all right, no. He was growing so hard he was in pain. He was dying.
"Sean," she breathed, moving her fingers on his face so gently he wondered that he could feel it. But he did feel it, so strongly the feeling seemed to permeate his body. She shifted and leaned closer, arching herself toward him. "Oh, God, Sean, I want you to kiss me."
Oh, God, Sean thought. He could see down her dress.
Sacred heart of Jesus.
There was a gauzy chemise under it, just as he'd imagined. Beneath that, her breasts looked high and round and firm, making him want to touch them. Hell, he didn't just want to touch them—he wanted to rip off her dress and fasten his mouth on them. She leaned closer, and he could see their rosy tips strain against the chemise like he was straining against his trousers. Her scent swamped him, and she raised her other hand to cradle his face, and then…
He kissed her. It was a defensive move, because he couldn't stare down her dress a moment longer without exploding. But he was lost the moment his lips touched hers.
Lost in the kiss, lost in her, lost in his own longing. She consumed him.
He was devastated.
Somehow they made it down to the sofa, and she was pushing him back and crawling over him. She was running her hands over his chest and around to his back. Her fingers left fire in their wake, a hot trail of burning sweetness that seemed to devastate him yet more.
"Touch me, Sean," she murmured. "Touch me like I'm touching you."
She devastated him. He was going to die if he didn't touch her. So, God help him, he touched her.
His hands went everywhere, everywhere they shouldn't, everywhere he wanted. Under her bodice to tease a nipple, to cup a breast when she moaned and asked for more. He was going to die if he didn't taste her, so his mouth followed. He nibbled on her neck, her shoulders. He unbuttoned her dress in back and dragged it down and suckled her, feasted on her.
Corinna wanted more. She'd never imagined she could feel like this. What she'd felt last night when she'd thought she wanted him was nothing compared to this. Nothing. The little ache that she'd felt then was nothing compared to how she ached now. Sean's mouth on her breast felt hot and made her ache everywhere, but especially between her legs, where the ache was exquisite, almost painful, just unbearable. She wanted more.
"Sean," she whispered, "I want you to take me."
"I want to take you," he echoed in a tone so ragged it tore at her heart. "I want all of you." He reversed their positions, climbing over her. He slipped a hand under her skirt and skimmed it up her calves to her thighs. Still he suckled her breasts, one and then the other, a sensation so astounding she was grateful she'd found the courage to act wanton. His fingers felt wonderfully warm on her legs, stroking, inspiring her to touch him more. She ran her hands over his skin, feeling his muscles underneath, and sinewy tendons, crisp hair where he had it and the smooth, soft places where he didn't.
His breathing became as rough as hers, making her heart thunder just to hear it. He moved his hand higher, brushing her curls, cupping her where no one had touched her before. He nibbled up her neck and took her mouth with his again, thrusting his tongue inside while his fingers slowly parted her below and began to stroke. He caught her gasp in his mouth and continued moving his hand, slowly, patiently, stroking her while excitement built until she couldn't keep still, until she couldn't stop a little sound of frustration that came from her throat.
And then he slipped a finger inside her.
"Oh, God, Sean," she breathed. "Oh, yes."
"Sweet, so sweet," he murmured into her mouth. He buried his face in her neck, moving his finger in and out of her. "So hot, so wet, so tight," he whispered against her skin. He did something with his thumb, touched a spot so sensitive her hips bucked off the sofa, and when he lingered there, circling, circling, she felt she might tumble off a ledge.
And then she did. She tumbled and tumbled, over and over, gasping and crying out his name. Sensation rocked her, sprinting along all her nerves, spreading everywhere.
"Sweet, so sweet," he choked out.
She felt dizzy; she felt lethargic. She felt drained, but she wanted more.
She wanted him.
"I want more," she whispered. "I want you."
He lifted his head then, kissed her, and lifted his head again. "Open your eyes, críona." She did, and he met her gaze, his own hazy with desire. He kissed her again and again, little nipping kisses and slow, deep ones. "This is wrong," he whispered, "but it feels so right."
"It is right. Oh, Sean, I still want you."
His gaze held hers for so long, so steadily, she felt she might be lost in it forever. Then he nodded and began tugging up on her dress, gathering it around her waist.
This is it, she thought. Finally he's going to join his body with mine and make me his. Her heart soared with the rightness of it, her pulse pounded, and every inch of her strained to feel him. She reached to help unbutton his trousers, but he moved down instead. He nibbled his way across her jaw and down her throat and past her breasts, nipping and licking her abdomen and her belly and lower, kissing her thighs, little feathery kisses that coaxed her to open them, baring her to his gaze.
And then he was there between her legs, his breath washing over her, hot and heavy. He kissed her there, then touched her lightly with his tongue.
What was he doing? She'd never imagined such a thing. But the pleasure was even more unimaginable. She'd thought she was finished, drained past sensation; she'd wanted only to feel him inside her. But suddenly every fiber of her being was sparking alive again, driving her up once more, crowding every lucid thought from her head. She couldn't think; she could only feel: the incredible heat of his mouth; his tongue, licking slick and unbelievably exciting; the tension building; her body straining toward a peak of passion she feared might tear her apart.
And it did. She splintered into a million shards of sensation, waves rushing, shimmering, making her soar.
Sean felt her tremble, felt her shudder, heard her gasp and cry out his name, and thought it the sweetest moment he'd ever known. He held his mouth to her, savoring the taste of her, a honeyed flavor he would never taste again.
He loved her, and he'd wanted to give her this. He knew there could be only this once, and he'd wanted to give her what he could before it was too late.
He crawled up her body and laid his head against her soft breasts, listening to her heart thunder like his. He wanted her, wanted her more than he'd ever thought possible. She whispered, "Take me, Sean; I still want you," in a tone so desperate, so filled with yearning it made him want to weep with despair. Oh, how he wanted to take her; he wanted to bury himself inside her and stay there forever.
But he couldn't. Somewhere in the madness, somewhere in the midst of giving her what he could, he'd discovered he still had a shred of clarity.
The wispiest shred, the barest fog, but just enough.
He wasn't going to take her. Not forever, not for a moment, not at all. He couldn't do that; he couldn't ruin her. Lust and drink had brought him closer to that than he'd intended, so close a hot rush of shame and regret overwhelmed him, but it wouldn't take him any farther.
"Take me now," Corinna whispered desperately, pressing herself up against him.
She felt divine, but he couldn't take her now. Not even if he'd wanted to. The shame and regret had stolen his desire.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Cuisle mo chroí, I'm so sorry."
"I feel like I've been waiting forever."
"I'm sorry." She was going to be waiting forever. He was never going to take her. He wasn't going to be able to do that, ever, because they had no future together.
But he couldn't tell her, not now, not until her painting was finished.
More shame and regret overwhelmed him, tightening his throat, making it difficult to breathe as he watched her eyes slowly clear, watched her come to her senses.
"Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, Sean. I cannot believe what happened. It was more wonderful than I can possibly describe. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but it was heaven."
"It was, yes," he said, meaning it. He'd been in a terrible state physically, but feeling her tremble in his arms had been the sweetest moment he'd ever known. He would never feel such sweetness again, but to feel it even once was a gift beyond measure.
"Next time—"
"Hush," he interrupted, and kissed her, a short kiss, because his throat was so tight he feared he couldn't breathe. There wouldn't be a next time, but he couldn't tell her that until her painting was finished.
He feared he might never be able to breathe again.
And he still had to help her fix the painting. She hadn't sketched yet, and she needed to sketch. He couldn't marry her, he would never have her, but he could still do what he'd come here to do. Three days from now, when he gave her the facts, when he devastated her, at least she would have her art. She'd have fixed her painting, and when it was accepted for the Summer Exhibition, she would still have her dreams, and they would help console her.
That thought in mind, he rose from the sofa and pulled her up, too. Ignoring her startled face, he tugged her bodice back up. Fortunately, the rest of her dress fell into place all by itself.
"Go sit in the chair, Corinna."
"What?"
"It's time to sketch now." He started unbuttoning the left side of the falls on his trousers.
"You've got to be jesting. I couldn't possibly sit and sketch now."
"We came here so you can sketch," he said, unbuttoning the right side. "Go sit down."
She did, watching him shuck off his trousers. Her eyes widened. Thank God he'd lost his desire, he thought, sweeping a used sketchbook off the table.
"Sketch, Corinna." He sat, holding the book as the earl had in her picture, arranging himself in a similar pose. "I want you to sketch."
Her gaze wandered over him. Wandered everywhere. A melting softness came into her eyes.
She devastated him.
But he hadn't the luxury of being devastated, not anymore. "Start sketching."
"I cannot possibly concentrate after what just happened. We'll have to do this again tomorrow."
"We're not doing this again, Corinna. I'm not leaving here until you've sketched enough anatomy to fix Lincolnshire's portrait. And I'm not touching you again; that I promise. I'm not kissing you or touching you…so sketch."