Free Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella) by Tanya Anne Crosby Page A

eye level. “I… well,” he stammered. It was all Lucien could do not to roll toward her and bury his lips into the delectable mounds.
    Dear God, but he wanted to draw her into his bed and suckle each nipple, first through the cloth of her dress... and then when she didn’t protest, he would bare them fully to his hungry eyes and feast upon them. He wanted to make her moan with ecstasy, wanted to show her the pleasures of womanhood. He wanted to cherish her with his hands and his body.
    He glanced up, into her face, with a sudden, dangerous revelation...
    He wanted to be the one.
    Never had he been so affected by a woman in all his days—and it helped not at all that he was butt-naked beneath the sheets.
    If she only knew—if only her brother knew.
    Christ, he couldn’t believe they had actually sent the girl into his bedchamber unattended. It was likely they thought him dressed to the teeth in night rail and cap like any other respectful chap might be. But they had completely misjudged him.
    Certainly, he would never have given her leave to enter the room of a wicked man, and he couldn’t believe how lax her brother seemed to be—with his own children, for that matter—never mind that Emma was obviously no longer a child herself.
    He frowned, not liking it one bit that she seemed so at ease in his presence, considering that most women would have died of fright at the mere sight of a man clad merely in his nightclothes.
    “What, for the love of God, is wrong?” she asked, her face white as she waited for him to speak.
    “I-I fell,” he yielded, his voice faltering, betraying him.
    “You fell?” she repeated a little dubiously. But he couldn’t precisely tell if that was what he heard in her voice, for he’d yet to be able to rent his gaze from her bodice in order to gauge her expression.
    He swallowed convulsively.
    “Your Grace,” she whispered impatiently. “Are you quite all right?” Once again she placed her hand to his cheek, and the monster under the covers quivered at her gentle caress.
    “Oh, God,” he said.
    “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “You are blistering hot!”
    She placed her hand to his chin and lifted his face until his eyes met hers, the gesture such a tender one that Lucien could scarcely bear it. And then she slipped her fingers lower, curling them about his neck, as though to measure the heat of his body there. “What can I do to ease your pain?” she asked fretfully.
    Lucien felt dizzy.
    The pain in his arse was completely forgotten at the moment, overshadowed by the one in his groin. If she lifted her skirts and straddled him, easing his unyielding erection into the silky warmth of her body, he would die with joy.
    Caught in the moment, Lucien couldn’t quite help himself. If it meant she would stay for awhile longer, then he would pretend to be at death’s door, if need be. Anything, anything , to keep her from moving those long, graceful fingers away from his burning flesh. He wanted them desperately wrapped about his shaft, her thumb caressing the head, where the droplet of moisture would bead. In his head, he saw her bring her damp thumb to her lips, painting them with the moisture, her smile glistening and full of promise.
    He smiled ruefully when she started to withdraw, and brought his arm from under the covers to seize her arm and halt its retreat. It felt so right to have her touch him so. More right than anything had ever felt in all his life.
    “My neck,” he said gruffly, lying easily as he met her gaze. “It feels… stiff.” He lifted her other hand and placed it, too, upon his feverish face. “And my head,” he said huskily, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire, “it aches terribly.”
    “It does?” Emma asked, eyeing him dubiously. She was suddenly staring at his bare arm that had only just come from beneath the covers with something akin to horror.
    “Oh, God—very much so!”
    Her brow furrowed. “I-it must be the fever,” she assured him. But her