Читать книгу Every Night I'm Yours - Christie Kelley - Страница 8

London, 1816

“Let me love you.”

The shadowy figure moved over her, not quite touching her. Yet she felt him with every fiber of her body. His heat, his strength, his desire. Or maybe it was her desire. She burned for him, ached for his touch.

Helplessly, she writhed, begging with her body for his touch. Her body understanding more of what she wanted than her mind did. The shadow shifted. He was closer. Right there, his body nearly grazing hers. Each barely there touch, making her throb with this uncontrollable need. His warm breath caressed her skin, his rich, almost spicy scent making her dizzy. His lips, strong yet velvety soft, brushed the side of her throat. She whimpered, reaching for him, wanting to feel the pressure of his body. She needed something more substantial than this shadowy lover. But when her fingers would have brushed his chest, his shoulders, his dark, spectral hair, his voice stopped her.

“Let me love you.”

This was what she wanted, what she needed.

“Yes. Yes. Please.”

No! Avis Copley sat upright, blinking against the watery light that still managed to make her bedroom seem unbearably bright. Not that dratted dream again. She yanked out the secret volume she’d stashed under her pillow last night and threw the book against wall. This was entirely the book’s fault.

Ever since she found the volume among her late father’s belongs two weeks ago, she’d been plagued by dreams. Not just any dreams. Sensual, erotic nightmares that tormented her with feelings of longing, until she awoke drenched in perspiration and aching for the one thing she could never have—a man.

She groaned and pulled the coverlet over her head, cocooning herself in darkness. In her seclusion, the images of her dream revealed themselves in vivid detail and her traitorous body responded again. Her breasts ached to be touched, and she gave into the need, hesitantly skimming her hands over the cotton of her nightrail. Beneath the fabric, her nipples puckered and became even more sensitive. What would it really feel like to have a man touch her this way? Touch her bare skin? Suckle her breasts and draw her nipple into the hot recesses of his mouth as her dream lover had?

The thought alone made her body tingle, the flesh between her legs pulse. Would it feel as good if she touched herself there? She squeezed her legs together to stem the growing ache but realized her efforts only added to her torment. Wrenching up her nightrail, she lowered her hand and slipped her fingers between the moist folds—

“Good morning, miss.”

Oh Lord, this morning couldn’t get any worse. “Good morning, Bridget,” she mumbled from under the coverlet. Heat scorched her cheeks with the mortification of being caught with her hand between her legs. She quickly adjusted her nightrail but refused to leave her sanctuary under the covers.

“Happy birthday, Miss Copley!”

Her birthday. Clearly, her morning could get worse. It wasn’t horrid enough that she was regularly dreaming of a man in her bed, or that she had nearly been caught in a very private position, now she was reminded that she was twenty-six years old. Twenty-six and she’d barely experienced anything in life.

“Just leave my breakfast on the table, please.”

“Yes, miss.”

Avis listened as her maid placed the tray down and walked out the door. Slowly, she emerged from her hiding place. Staring up at the coffered ceiling, she knew she couldn’t go on like this, playing at really living. It was time.

The time had come to make a decision that could affect her life forever.