Smooth Irish (Book 2 of the Weldon Series) Read Free Page A

wild stories on how
many had boldly claimed their lovers, and had dreamed for years of
claiming her own. “I am,” she said softly. “I am,” she said again,
then she stood and stepped from the bath, the water pooling upon
the wooden planks at her feet. She didn’t stand alone long. Without
another word he swept her into his arms, his lips claiming hers,
his tongue plundering, as his hands possessed. Wet, wicked with
need, she braced her hands on the breadth of his shoulders as he
lifted her, bringing her breasts to the heat of his tongue. He
swung her around and laid her back upon the bed.
    “I seem to find myself in dire straits and also need
your immediate assistance,” he said, his voice soft with amusement,
husky with desire. He took her hand and placed it over the bulge of
his arousal. Throbbing heat filled her hand.
    “Oh, heavens,” she said, blinking with surprise.
    He grinned. “Not yet, but it will be heaven.” He
ripped his shirt open and buttons flew about them. His boots and
trousers followed so quickly that she barely had time to see all of
him before he pulled her to the edge of the bed and drove deeply
into the very place she ached for him. She winced with the
discomfort and the alien feel of being invaded.
    He froze; his eyes widened with surprise. “A
virgin?”
    “No, not anymore.” She grabbed his arms, wanting
him. “Show me heaven.”
    “ Heaven help me, my Lady.
At this point I’ve no other choice.” He strained as if fighting a
huge battle then groaned in defeat. After a moment’s hesitation as
he stared down into her eyes, burning a way right to her soul, he
moved out of her a little, then slid back deep inside her, more
gently this time. He did this again and again until the fire inside
her flared so hot she had no choice but to meet his thrust with her
own. Then his hands roamed over her, touching her everywhere,
playing mercilessly with her breasts and nipples. The fire blazed
hotter, and just as she thought she couldn’t stand it another
moment, she shuddered uncontrollably with more pleasure than
imaginable. Sir Weldon’s body jerked against hers the same way and
then they lay still together for a while, her heart pounding thrice
for every breath he panted. She opened her eyes to see him smiling
at her.
    “ I think we’ll reach
heaven and go beyond, Lady Miller. I’m already dying with
pleasure,” he said and began to move again. Her eyes widened and
her breath caught. There was more? Surely she’d die.
    Water pooled at her feet and Nan shivered from
the cool air caressing her heated skin. She hadn’t taken time to
grab a towel when she’d jumped from the tub, and she needed to get
back into the hot water or dry off and dress before she took a
chill, but she couldn’t. Not until she’d written down every darn
word of the Sir Jackson Weldon fantasy still playing in her
mind.
    Droplets plunked off her nose and hair,
spilling onto the page, but she continued to write. By bringing the
man to life on the page, maybe she could exorcise him from her
mind. And once she had that battle won, maybe then she could rein
her hormones back into their calm, controlled places.
    As she wrote the story, she deliberately gave
Sir Weldon blond hair and green eyes instead of black hair and blue
eyes, a feeble attempt to direct her subconscious mind toward Brad
Swanson. He was the perfect example of the kind of man she needed
in her life.
    She finished the last word, snapped
her secret black book closed, and stuck it back under her pillow.
Ever since she was a little girl, she’d written down her thoughts,
her stories, her hopes. It was the secret place where she let the
happily ever after dreams of a little girl who’d known nothing but
heartache live. The one place where the realities of life could
never invade and steal her hopes away.
    Shakespeare, her cat, gave a loud meow, protesting
his hunger outside of her bedroom door.
    “All right, I’m coming,” she called and went after