Page 17 of Courting Claudia

“Let me take a guess. I would wager he recites poetry.”

Her head snapped up.

That was so like Richard Foxmore. To ensnare people with words. Not his own, he would guess.

“So he probably quotes poems that mention that your hair is the color of sunlight on a warm day. And that your skin resembles the smoothest of creams. Or perhaps he declares your eyes to be the color of the bluebells growing on the hillside.” Those bluebell eyes widened, but she never looked away. “Your mouth, oh, your sweet mouth—he would say it was shaped like the most perfect of rosebuds.” Her teeth worried her bottom lip. “Am I getting warmer?”

“He’s said some things like that. Only I don’t believe I’ve heard those particular phrases.” Her brow furrowed. “Who wrote them?”

He leaned in closer to her. “No one. I just said them.”

“I see,” she said in a near whisper.

“I cannot court you like that, Miss Prattley. I hope you don’t mind. But when I look at your hair, I don’t think of sunshine.”

Her frown deepened. “You don’t?”

“No. I think of thick, rich honey that I want to pour onto my tongue.”

“Oh.”

“And when I see your skin, I don’t think of cream.”

“No?”

“No. I think of the finest of satins that I want to glide my fingers across.”

“Oh my.”

“Your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“Yes, your eyes, I don’t think of bluebells. I think of the bluest of water and the way it’s slippery against my skin when I dive beneath the surface.”

She licked her lips and nodded slightly.

“And your mouth. I don’t think of rosebuds or any other flowers when I look at your mouth.”

“You don’t?”

“No. The only thought I have when I look at your mouth is of warm, slow kisses that last all afternoon.”

“Oh my goodness.” She leaned in a little closer, and it was all the encouragement he needed.

With one arm, he pulled her closer, then dropped his mouth to hers. It was a kiss meant to prove that he was serious about courting her. A kiss meant to show her she was desirable. But the instant his lips touched hers, he forgot all about his intentions.

Her lips were soft and pliant beneath his. With only a tiny amount of coaxing, he was able to open her mouth and explore inside. Her warm breath mingled with his. When he swept his tongue in her mouth, she stiffened slightly, but then released a throaty moan that sent blood rushing to his groin.

He knew he should stop the kiss and get the hell out of here. But she felt so good. Tasted so sweet. He deepened the kiss and felt her fingers lace through his hair. Her tongue tentatively moved against his. Her lack of experience was evident, but her clumsiness only fueled his arousal. Damn, but he wanted her. Right here, right now on this bench in her father’s garden.

He fought the urge to groan and forced himself to end the kiss.

Her eyes remained closed, and her breath came in shallow puffs. Finally she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

“I don’t believe you have a future as a poet, sir.”

Was she serious? That was her response? While his pants pulled tight across his erection, she thought of poetry. “I should think my poetic words the last thing on your mind.”