he huskily whispered. “I ache with wantin’ ye.” His fingers began a slow exploration of her neck and moved lower to the lace at the edge of her shift, and hovered, almost as if he waited for an invitation to continue. “I want to touch ye. Do ye want me to touch ye?” “Touch me where?” she asked him in a breath above a whisper. She was barely able to concentrate, so filled with warmth was she just from his nearness. His fingers lithely moved along the line of her breast, tracing the contour and stopping at her nipple. His thumb and forefinger gently massaged the protruding bud through her shift. “Here—and other places.” She knew what other places he meant, and she very much wanted him to touch her all over. Somehow her own weak need for him overshadowed her uncertainty and fear. She nodded. “I want you to touch me,” she admitted, a bit surprised at her own brazenness. In the gathering darkness, she felt his sensuous smile upon her.
