The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (best novels to read to improve english .txt) 📕

helpless ecstasy. He threw back his head, muscles straining in his neck, and gave himself over to her. Bound body and soul, their release washed them over the precipice and tumbled them into a roiling sea of blinding sensation.

66

Georgetown, April 1865

Charlotte lay still, listening to Braham’s soft breathing. Moonlit particles drifted in a beam of light which shone through the partially closed drapes and graced the handsome planes of his face. She’d cupped her hand along his slightly bristled cheek, one leg lay across his muscular thighs, and her head lay nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. Their limbs and arms were entwined like magical multicolored threads. She purred with contentment and snuggled, protected from the chill in a sensuous nest of warmth. The scent of sex, so carnal and tantalizing, surrounded them, permeating the sheets and pillows and her imagination.

She shifted slightly, and his hand slipped loosely to her hips. “I hear ye thinking,” he whispered, his voice drowsy and sleep-deprived. “What’s worrying ye?”

A prickle of sweat gleamed among the curly hairs of his chest where her arm had rested, and she wiped it away. “Nothing really, except I’m thirsty.”

His eyelids fluttered, and he pulled her over on top of him, holding her closer still. “Ye’re probably hungry, too. I’ll go see what I can find.”

She kissed him and rubbed against his erection. “Hmm…don’t go.”

He smacked her lightly on the butt. “Keep this up and ye’ll die of thirst.” He flipped her over, trapping her body beneath his and kissed her soundly. “I won’t be gone long enough for ye to miss me.” He slipped out of bed and tucked the covers up to her chin. “Stay warm.”

Sighing, she rolled up into the fetal position, already missing his warmth. What they had shared over the last few hours was unique in her experience, and spoke to her on multiple levels. She wasn’t a sexual neophyte by any means. But none of her lovers had ever made love to her the way Braham had. He didn’t simply have sex with her. He had created an electric atmosphere and conducted an orchestra whose music still filled her mind and heart.

She was smiling, reveling in the ravishing experience, when he returned a few minutes later carrying a silver tray with a bottle of wine and a plate of bread and cheese. Before he opened the bottle, he stoked the fire, which sent out warm heat and the sweet scent of hickory. Every so often the flame popped and sparked when it found a pocket of resin. The fire quickly removed the chill, so she pushed back the covers and sat up, propping pillows behind her back.

Braham dropped his robe on a chair and stood naked by the bed, opening the bottle. She looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes, leisurely studying the solidness of his superbly conditioned body, and the molded contours of chin and hip and thigh. His incision was still pink, but no one, other than a surgeon, would ever take time to notice such a minor imperfection. Her muscles tightened in exquisite anticipation and pure, raw desire, which warmed her thoroughly.

He handed her a glass of vibrant ruby wine with touches of orange around the edges. “This is from my vineyards.” He lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. “Gentle, yet striking. Tell me what ye think.”

She gave the glass an open-air, freestyle swirl, observing the legs of wine as they ran down the sides of the goblet. Her mouth watered. As her nose hovered above the rim, she gave several quick, short sniffs, and then she sipped. “Hmm. Fresh aromas of lime, grapefruit, and earth. Delicious.”

His face split into a huge grin, and his eyes, dark and penetrating, fell on her with an appreciative light. He stacked his pillows before climbing back into bed and pulling her into the curve of his arm. Once settled, he picked up the food and placed the plate on his lap.

She nibbled on a slice of cheese while he combed her hair—now wild and curly and tangled—with his fingers. She tilted her head to look into his eyes. “I read a quote once which said something like: ‘Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.’ It’s how I feel about you. You’ve always been a part of me and always will.”

He gently traced the curve of her cheek and chin with the look of an artist studying her before creating a masterpiece. He set her glass aside and picked up a small box from the tray he’d carried into the room. “I have something for ye.”

He removed a ring from the box, took her hand, and slipped it on her right-hand ring finger. “This belonged to my grandmother.” Longing suffused his voice.

A brilliant sapphire came alive in a flash of firelight, twinkling and dazzling. Charlotte stared at her hand, speechless, the implications unclear at the moment. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t accept it. It’s a family heirloom.”

He set the box aside and refilled his glass. “Of course, ye can,” he said lightly. “It’s mine to give.”

“But it’s not mine to accept,” she said, turning to face him with clear irritation in her voice. “This is for your future wife. Unless…” She trembled as a soft, stirring, hopeful desire unrolled from a secret place inside her, then curled upward, spiraling like a candle flame. “Are you asking me to…to marry you?”

He raised his eyebrow in a silent question, and his pursed lips curved into what might have been the shadow of a smile.

“Because if you are, I’d marry you this minute, but only if you intend to return to the twenty-first century.”

His eyes pinned hers, and he said, “And if I’m not?”

She glanced at the ring and tugged at it. “I can’t accept this.”

He stilled her hand and held her fingers closed. “Wear it for now.”

She slapped his hand away and slipped the ring off over her knuckle, surprised by how perfectly it fit her