Free Cheryl Holt by Love Lessons Page A

and blue-eyed, with creamy skin, perfect features, a pleasant voice, and a refreshing demeanor. Contrary to Abigail’s opinion of the other guests, she could easily picture her sister in the arms of one of her two suitors, just as she could picture herself. Previously, she’d have denied it, but not after her meeting with Mr. Stevens.
    From that one fleeting lesson, she’d made a shocking discovery: There was an earthy, lusty side to her personality that she’d never suspected. She hadn’t grasped that she’d been missing the type of physical interaction that marriage would effect. Now she couldn’t understand how she’d managed to survive without it.
    Surprisingly, she possessed an uncanny ability to fantasize. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the nude drawings Mr. Stevens had shown her, the ones of himself lying on the sofa with the woman named Lily. However, the woman she conjured wasn’t Lily at all, but herself!
She
was the female who was so tightly entwined with James Stevens.
Their
legs and tongues tangled, his weight pushed
her
down into the pillows, his hand was at
her
breast, squeezing and manipulating
her
extended nipple.
    To her dismay, her mental renderings were so vivid that she could perceive the warmth of his skin, the brandy on his tongue, the thickness of his hair as she sifted her fingers through it. Uncomfortable, she shifted in her chair, the friction against her thighs and bottom setting off a strange maelstrom of agitation.
    Oh, how could Mr. Stevens have brought about such agony? Had the scoundrel realized that his brief tutoring would leave her in such a state? She couldn’t contemplate anything but him! The rat! Every second of their appointment maddeningly replayed inside her head: everything he’d said, everything he’d done, everything she’d said and done, as well.
    Mostly, she continued returning to the moment when they had discussed kissing, when he had asked her if she would like to be kissed. With all her heart, she’d craved the opportunity to have his lips pressed against her own. She’d wanted it with a longing that was as desperate as it was frightening. The prospect made her limbs weak. She was aching and restless. And her lips . . .
    They tingled and burned, and she repeatedly ran her tongue over them, aware of their presence in a fashion she’d never been before. Mad as it sounded, they felt dryand unused, as if they’d been in storage for a lengthy respite and were just now reattached and ready to be utilized for their main purpose. That being for kissing James Stevens.
    The notion set her senses to reeling. What would it be like to be kissed by him? He had said that she would have to ask if she wished it to occur. What if she braved that necessary giant step?
    She could reflect upon nothing else.
    While contemplating their next rendezvous, she was compelled to admit an insane urge to wear her hair down, but, as no man had seen her locks unbound, the concept was almost too scandalous to consider. Yet, she could imagine Mr. Stevens looking his fill, touching, toying, letting the long strands drift across his palm. He would press it to his face, inhale the tangy scent of her soap, then wrap the blond wave around his fist, pulling her close, closer. . . .
    Stifling a groan, she glanced about, baffled to find that the meal had ended without her realizing. The ladies were headed for the drawing room and, thankfully, Abigail slipped past without having to talk to anyone. Since she’d arrived back at the Town house, she hadn’t had a single quiet moment for solitary retrospection. Servants had been hurrying to and fro. Margaret had been in a dither over the seating arrangements. Caroline had insisted on incessantly reviewing the excitement over her first London party.
    While Abigail typically exhibited the utmost patience and forbearance, it had been all she could do to keep from snapping at everyone. She yearned to sneak off to her rooms where she could fret and