Free Seduced by His Touch by Tracy Anne Warren Page A

against the lower portion of her stomach, just slightly above the juncture of her thighs.
    Is that him? she thought. Is that hard jut wedged against me—his sex? Mercy, surely he isn’t aroused? For me?
    Having never felt an erection before, even through the barrier of clothing, she wasn’t certain. But a glance at the fixed set of his jaw and the intense gleam in his azure eyes made her realize she must be right.
    “But I’m so plain and tall,” she cried, unwilling to let herself believe that this man—this big, virile, gorgeous specimen of masculinity—could possibly want her. Her. Grace Danvers—unremarkable spinster—who had never so much as tempted a man to kiss her in all her twenty-five years. Not even Terrence had tried. Despite having asked her on repeated occasions to be his wife, he had never once attempted to take liberties.
    Yet here was Jack Byron, sophisticated libertine and lady-killer—a man who could have any woman of his choosing no matter how beautiful or well-born—demonstrating his attraction for her.
    “You don’t want me,” she whispered.
    “Don’t I?” He dropped a lingering kiss on her lips, then another on her cheek, and a third on her temple. “You continue to be mistaken in your estimation of my opinions, and in your own as well.
    Her brows drew tight. “My own?”
    “You are not plain,” he told her, his words low and husky.
    When she made a sound of disagreement, he hushed her. “You may not be beautiful in the traditional sense, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t lovely all the same. Uniquely lovely, with an inner radiance that far transcends what passes for pretty these days. Take your eyes, for example.”
    “My eyes?”
    “Hmm. Have you ever noticed how they change color with your moods?”
    She shook her head.
    “Well, they do. When you’re happy, they’re a pure pristine blue, like twin brushstrokes of sky. And when you’re displeased or lost in serious thought, they shift to grey. Silvery, sensual grey, the sort that ripples like dawn mist over a lake. I can think of no other woman with eyes like yours. Magnificent, soul-deep eyes in which a man could drown if he weren’t careful.”
    He laid a hand against her face and touched his lips to hers. She quivered, blood throbbing in her temples, her skin turning hot beneath his touch.
    “As for being tall…,” he went on, stroking his thumb in an arc over her cheek as he scattered random kisses along her brow and chin and neck, “…I am tall myself. I like that you’re tall, too. I like that I can hold you and gaze with ease upon your face. I like it that I can do this”—he captured her lips for a slow, soft kiss—“without having to stoop or crouch or dip in order to make you fit against me. You are a perfect complement, Grace. The feminine half that makes me whole.”
    He bumped his hips gently into hers and drew a ragged gasp from her throat. “See what you do to me?” He cupped a hand over one breast. “See what I do to you?”
    Of its own volition, her nipple peaked, the stiffened bud rising traitorously against his palm. Her breath soughed fast between her lips. Her knees grew weak, making her thankful he was holding her, since she was sure she would have crumpled to the ground in a heap otherwise.
    “Put your arms around my neck,” he told her.
    Trembling, she did as he asked, bringing their bodies even closer together.
    His thumb stroked over her breast, back and forth across the hardened tip, then back and forth again.
    “Shall I stop?” he whispered, changing his caress to a circular glide. An ache rose between her legs, a yearning that drew an involuntary whimper from her throat.
    “What did you say?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear.
    She shook her head. “No, don’t stop, your lordship.”
    “Jack,” he said, tugging her even tighter. “From now on, you are to call me Jack.”
    “Yes, my lord. Yes, Jack.”
    And then, as if the sound of his name on her lips broke