her eyes followed his hands. There was no disguising his erection, the press of hard flesh straining against the thin evening breeches.
I should close my eyes , she told herself as she stared, wide-eyed as he stripped off the garment. She knew her anatomy, the facts of life; she thought she knew what to expect, but it was still a revelation to see the living body. Close your eyes , she told herself, forcing them up, but all that achieved was the discovery that she could not keep them from descending again to follow the hair on his chest tapering down to the thick curls around his manhood.
His very erect manhood. Laurel swallowed, not knowing whether it was apprehension or desire. Both, she realised. I want to touch him, feel him. I want to kiss himâ¦there. I shouldnât want this, but I do. I want it to be Patrick.
She knew she was blushing, knew she was trembling, but there was no doubt in her mind that this is where she wanted to be, with this man.
âCome here,â Patrick said, a hint of amusement in his voice. âProbably best not to look.â
He drew her in close, his body hot and hard against her softness. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts, rubbing the already tight nipples into impossibly sensitive knots. Against her belly she felt him stir in the tangle of coarse hair, the hard length of flesh alive and blatant with its heat and its threatâ¦its promise.
He was so aroused. Just as I am , she thought, shaken by the realisation that she could feel like this.
âOh, God. Youâre killing me,â he muttered.
He must be able to feel her excitement, she was sure. He was no innocent and her body was trying to mould itself to his. As she rubbed her breasts wantonly against his chest, she could not help rocking into the hardness of his straining erection.
He caught her up suddenly, whirled her round and dropped her so that she landed face down on the bed.
He followed her, his weight pressing into her thighs, his legs straddling hers. She felt him seize the hem of the tattered shift, tear it away, and cooler air swept over the hot skin of her back. Something brushed her buttocks and she realised it was his erection.
She arched upward, brushing against him and he groaned and fell forward so that her buttocks ground into his groin. His weight was thrilling, arousing. She had thought it would be frightening to be trapped beneath the weight of a man when he made love, but it was not. At least, it was not when the man was Patrick.
He bit her shoulder, a nip that sent sensation coursing through her, and she gasped, struggling under him, trying to part her legs, wanting to be able to turn and hold him, kiss his mouth, have him soothe the ache that was building inside her, transforming her body into something that was urgent, slick with moisture, tight with impossible demands.
At last, oh, please⦠His knee was pressing between her legs, forcing them apart, and she yielded instantly, trembling beneath him. But then he went still, his body over hers, for what seemed an age. âPatrick?â she whispered.
What was he waiting for? Had she done something wrong? The apprehension that had been drowned in passion and sensation began to creep back. He was large and heavy and male and now she was remembering all the whispered gossip about lovemaking, all the tales the wide-eyed village girls told. Did she really want to do this? Only it was Patrickâ¦
Chapter Three
âPatrick?â
His muscles locked, cramped with the effort of holding himself off her soft body, keeping himself from thrusting into her. The whisper sounded frightened, as well it might. What had he done?
âShh.â He rolled to the side, away from her. Heâd get up, pull the covers over her, let her sleep until the early hours when they could creep out. His groin ached with unsatisfied desire, his head ached with the aftermath of his fear for her and that blistering row. She must be exhausted and