Impetuous - Candace Camp

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of her neck, until he was stopped by the cloth of her gown. Impatiently he unbuttoned the first few buttons until it fell open enough that he could pull the gown down onto her arm, exposing a tantalizing expanse of skin down to her shoulder. He gazed at the creamy skin for a moment, feeling himself harden and throb. He trailed a finger, shaking slightly, across the smooth flesh. It was like touching rose petals, and it sent a spear of desire straight down into his loins. He bent his head and kissed the point of her shoulder.

      His breath came faster in his throat as he kissed his way back across her collarbone and up her neck. He snuggled up closely behind her, pressing his body against hers all the way up and down, letting his desire pulse against her rounded derriere. His hand slid down her abdomen, pushing her tightly against him, and delved between her legs. She let out a soft moan and moved her legs, opening for him. He caught his breath, stirred by the sound of her passion. He was certain now that she must be awake, though her only acknowledgment had been that sound. There was something infinitely arousing in her silent acquiescence, in the way her breath grew faster and louder, as though her most basic needs were betraying her, breaking through her self-imposed quiet. His fingers moved rhythmically, pressing and releasing, sliding across her nether lips through the cloth, and he was rewarded with another low groan that seemed to rise from deep within her.

      Eyes closed, luxuriating in the petal softness of her skin, he kissed his way across her cheek. Letting out a murmur of pleasure, she turned instinctively toward him, and their lips met. Her mouth was soft and warm, yielding to the pressure of his, and her lips opened to his questing tongue. Her arms came up and curled around his neck as he kissed her deeply. Desire shuddered through him.

      He pulled and tugged at her nightgown, rucking the skirt of it up until finally his fingers were on the soft flesh of her thighs. He caressed the delicate skin, his fingers creeping upward until they encountered the moisture of her desire, which only fed his own. He slipped across the slick, satiny flesh, her pearly dew wetting his fingers. She jerked a little, startled, as he touched that most intimate part of her, but then she moved, inviting his touch, and his fingers began to stroke her.

      Need was pounding in him. He wanted to taste her, touch her, everywhere. He would have liked to part her legs and slide between them, plunge deep within her and carry them both to satisfaction. But even more, he wanted to prolong this moment, to explore and taste and suck every ounce of pleasure from this coupling. He had not expected anything like this when he had responded to the Moulton girl’s invitation. She had seemed a blatant hussy, and he had not planned at first to even come to her bedchamber. Only restlessness had finally sent him from his room and down the hall to Joanna’s. But now...

      Now, touching her, breathing in her scent, taking her mouth with his—there was none of the casual, premeditated passion he had expected. Her body was like fire beneath him. Her kisses and the way she responded to his touch, the unstudied moans and sighs, all spoke of a blend of passion and inexperience that was more enticing than any practiced touch. He could not remember the last time he had felt so quickly aroused, so intensely alive, in a woman’s arms.

      She writhed beneath him, moaning as his fingers worked their magic. He felt as if he might explode. His mouth left hers and trailed down her neck onto the white expanse of her chest. His lips touched the quivering softness of her breast. Gently he kissed her flesh, and her body arched up a little, as though seeking his kiss. Obligingly, he took her nipple into the hot, wet cave of his mouth and began to suckle.

      She let out a moan, and her hips moved fiercely beneath his hand. Suddenly she jerked and cried out, her eyes flying open, and he realized with intense satisfaction that he had brought her to release. He raised his head and smiled down into her face. He saw the blank confusion in her eyes, wide-open and staring at him. He saw the horror dawning in them. He also saw, with the feeling of stepping off a cliff into nothing but air, that the girl who lay beneath him was not Joanna Moulton.

      Chapter One

      CASSANDRA WAS AWASH in pleasure. She had never experienced anything like it, dreaming or awake. She had been dreaming lush, colorful dreams from the moment she fell asleep. Somehow she knew they were dreams, and yet she was unable to awaken from them. She had been walking through her house—the old mansion of Chesilworth, not her aunt’s more habitable, yet far less pleasant, home—and she had been warm and happy. Her father was still alive and puttering downstairs in his library. The walls were a warm, buttery tint, touched by the rays of the sun, and she passed a bedroom, where a jewel-toned red velvet spread covered the bed. Candles burned inside, beckoning her. She started into the room, but then somehow she was outside in a cool, vibrantly green bower. The leaves of the hedges were dark and waxy, smooth to the touch. A breeze swept over her, lifting her hair and tickling the back of her neck. She shivered a little in delight. The sun was warm upon her shoulders, the breeze caressed her. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feeling.

      Pleasure welled up inside her as the wind played over her cheek and neck. She was aware that now she had on no clothes, but strangely this fact did not seem to bother her. She loved the way the sun felt on her naked skin, the way the air drifted over her. Now there was a man with her. But that did not bother her, either. She knew him, though she could not see his face or say his name. He put his hands on her, and her loins turned to warm wax. She felt weak and shaky as he kissed her over and over again. His lips pressed against her mouth, opening it to his questing tongue, and she jerked with the violent, unexpected pleasure of it. Warm moisture pooled between her legs, and she squeezed them together, trying to satisfy the ache that had arisen there.

      His kisses filled her even as they consumed her. She clung to him in a maelstrom of pleasure. His hand traveled down over her body and delved between her legs, sending waves of pleasure through her. She moaned and moved her hips against his hand, instinctively seeking something, though she wasn’t sure what. Then, suddenly, a pleasure more intense than anything she had ever felt seemed to burst within her.

      Cassandra jerked, and her eyes flew open. She was awake. And a man she had never met was leaning over her, staring down into her face.

      For an instant, she simply stared at him in stupefaction that matched the stunned expression on his face. Then horror rushed through her as her befogged mind began to function. She drew breath to scream. He saw her intent and quickly covered her mouth with his hand, which frightened her even more. She grabbed his arm, trying to pull his hand away, and at the same time, she struggled to sit up. He pushed her back down firmly, and she swung her hand up, hitting him sharply on the ear. He winced and grabbed for her wrist with his free hand, but she swung the other at him, too, and kicked, trying to wriggle off the bed. He threw his weight upon her to pin her down, and she was aware of every hard line of muscle and bone.

      He was stronger than she, but Cassandra was not one to give up, and she had an advantage in that he had to keep one hand pressed across her mouth to keep her from screaming. She rained blows on his head and shoulders and back, and thrashed her legs, trying to land a kick that would do some harm. It took him a good while to finally get his legs wrapped tightly around hers and his hand clenched around both her wrists, pinning them to the bed above her. He was lying completely atop her, bearing her down into the mattress. Cassandra could not help but be aware of the intruder’s power, of his very maleness. The position frightened her, yet at the same time she was confusedly aware of the heat that sizzled through her veins and lay pooled and heavy in her abdomen.

      She wished that she could think better. Why was her head so heavy and groggy? And what was a man of the wealth and position of Sir Philip Neville doing assaulting a woman in her bedroom at a house party in the country?

      He was breathing heavily, and Cassandra saw that sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat, just above the undone button of his shirt. Cassandra pulled both her eyes and her mind away from that tanned hollow of flesh that was visibly pulsing with each beat of his heart.

      “Don’t scream!” he whispered, leaning down close to her face. “I promise you I mean you no harm. I will let you go, if you will promise not to scream.”

      She gazed at him, wide-eyed, and nodded her head. He looked at her for a long, doubtful moment, then eased his hand from her mouth, moving in tiny increments, always ready to clamp it back

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