by Lavinia Kent
“Good, I was hoping you’d add some more wood.” The door creaked open and James entered, his wet shirt almost transparent. It might never be white again, but she couldn’t say she minded. Wet and clinging was good. God, what was wrong with her? Why was she thinking this way? Perhaps she had a fever.
“What are you staring at?” he asked, walking over to stand beside her, holding his hands out alongside hers. “And why aren’t you out of that gown? Surely you’re not still overcome by modesty. I promise not to look.”
But what if she wanted him to? No. No. No. She was not going to think like that. “I couldn’t manage the laces. The water has made them thick and the cold, my fingers clumsy.”
“Here, then, give me your back and I’ll take care of it.” His voice rang with command.
An impulse rose to say no, but she knew just how childish that would sound—and there was something about that tone that had her belly heating even further. Bowing her chin, she did as he asked.
“You are right about the water making it almost impossible. The knots seem nearly like a solid piece.”
“I know.” She could not keep the sulk out of her voice. Her emotions were flying back and forth like a tennis ball.
The dress parted behind her, allowing her to pull in a full breath of the rapidly warming air. She kept her chin down as she felt James slip it from her shoulders, lowering it gently until she could step out of it. Clad only in her chemise, she stepped closer to the fire, raising her arms to the growing warmth.
Chapter 9
Fuck. The thought echoed about his brain again and again. Sin stood facing the fire, her damp chemise doing nothing to hide her body from his sight, nothing at all. Her full ass pressed against the damp linen. He’d certainly been right about that. His gaze dropped to the ripe peach and stayed there. The cloth hid almost nothing from his view. He could almost taste the velvet of her skin—admittedly not the cleanest.
He knew that he was still coated with grit and could only imagine that Sin must be the same. Still, he wouldn’t mind taking a bite—a big, juicy bite.
His unruly cock again swelled at the thought of his mark upon that creamy flesh. What was it about her that did this to him?
He turned and, grabbing the pot, marched back out the door to fill it with rainwater. At least with the weather so cold the water was fresh and clean—and freezing. He should probably pour a bucket or two down the front of his trousers before he went inside.
Slamming into the cottage, he settled the pot on the hook over the fire and then pointedly turned his back on Sin. She did not say anything, only moved even closer to the flames.
Reaching for the buttons of his shirt, he paused. He did not wish to seem insensitive. But then again, she’d been the one responsible for his mud bath. If she’d let him pull her up she’d have suffered only minor damage and he’d have escaped with nothing more than muddy feet and ankles.
He quickly finished with the buttons and pulled off the dank shirt. His valet would not be pleased with him. The quick outdoor washing had left the shirt the color of milky tea and he doubted anything would restore it to its pristine whiteness.
Not that he cared. He almost tossed it in the corner, but then mindful that he’d probably need it later, he hung it over the back of a chair. His hands moved to the buttons of his flap.
What about Sin’s gown? Was it still a muddled heap on the floor? The girl had always had a maid; did she know enough to hang it to dry? He turned—yes, she did. It hung on the hook he’d previously hung it on, although she’d do well to spread the skirts a little more.
A swallow echoed about the room, a very loud swallow.
He turned further and saw Sin, once again, staring at him, her eyes locked on his hands as they worked the buttons of his flap. Instantly, his prick was fully ready to go again.
She looked hungry, very hungry. Her pupils darkened as he watched, her interest clear.
It was his turn to swallow. How was he supposed to act the gentleman with her looking at him like that? He might have been allowing his thoughts free rein, but he’d intended to be very proper in his actual actions.
After a moment, a very long moment, her eyes slowly slid up his bare chest until she met his gaze. He expected her to demur, to say something to change the mood, to…Hell, he didn’t actually know what he expected—Sin had never been one to conform to expectations, but he expected something other than those devouring eyes, full of want, to meet his.
She did not drop her gaze.
She did not blush.
She simply stared—and stared—and stared.
Her eyes dropped again, roaming lingeringly over his chest and then dropping lower—before darting back up to his eyes. He kept his own eyes on her face, resisting all urge to let them drop to those too alluring breasts with their peaked nipples fighting against her damp chemise or lower to those long thighs outlined by the fire burning behind her. Although she was more than a yard away from him, he could feel her breath slow, feel the air fill her lungs, feel the slow exhale.
The air in his own lungs slowed to match. His gaze lowered to her lips, watching the air move against them, watching as her tongue slowly swept out to dampen them. His mouth grew dry. He moved his eyes back to meet hers, drew in a deep breath.
She took a half step toward him.
He took a step toward her, paused. Could he trust the message in her glance? He certainly wanted to, but he didn’t want to make another mistake. It would be one thing if she’d agreed to his marriage proposal, but…
Her feet inched farther forward. Her eyes never leaving his.
God, there was no way he could say no to this—but then, there was no way he could say yes, not when she had not given him an affirmative answer.
The fire hissed, water boiling over the edge of the pot.
“I’ll bring in some more water to mix with that,” he said. “It would be good to be really clean.”
Her lips parted and he could feel the protest forming, but instead she merely nodded then tore her gaze from his, turning back to the fire—and damn, but that perfect ass was back in gaze.
Now his mouth watered. He turned and strode out, glad he had not actually removed his breeches. The cold mud sucked about his feet one more time, but this time he was glad of the relief.
—
What had happened there? What was happening to her? The fire warmed her, but she knew it was not the fire that caused the flush of heat that still filled her, that kept sweeping through her. When she’d turned and seen his bare chest, she’d felt the breath leave her body. All those muscles. Even though she’d noticed them before, she was struck anew. Her mind might still be skittish, but her body was sending far different messages. It remembered far too well the feelings she’d awoken with the previous morning.
The man was beautiful, more proportionate than any Greek or Roman statuary. She’d always known he was well built, but somehow she’d missed the full truth.
And when his hands had moved to the buttons of his flap…
She swallowed hard, taking a step away from the fire, trying to cool herself. She failed. Her mind kept going to the mystery beneath that flap. Oh, she knew the basics, had known them for years—and she’d felt it. Her body cooled at the thought, at the remembrance of pain. Still, she was curious. She’d certainly caught a glimpse of it yesterday, an unwelcome glimpse, but now she wanted to know more, to understand. She glanced down at herself. And how did men walk around with those things stuck between their legs?
A flush rose up her cheeks. Such thoughts were not at all appropriate, but how was a woman to keep her mind on basic things, like how to get her dress properly dry, when a Greek god kept walking about shirtless?
Said Greek god chose that moment to walk back in the door, a large tin container half-filled with water in his hands.
She stared at it in confusion. If it had been in the cottage previously, surely she would have noticed it.
Catching her glance, he answ
ered. “It was near the stack of firewood. It’s for watering the horses, but it’s clean and will work adequately for us to wash off.”
Washing off in a horse trough? Well, she couldn’t be too picky, given the amount of grit she could still feel clinging to her skin. “I suppose.”
James set the container by the fire and began ladling hot water into it. He stuck a finger into it every moment or two to gauge the temperature. Nodding with satisfaction, he dipped a piece of cloth into it.
Where had that come from? He’d been here less time than her, but seemed to know where things that she’d never seen were. Or perhaps it, too, had come from his seemingly bottomless saddlebags. She still couldn’t believe he’d managed to carry two bottles of wine.
Or perhaps he just knew how cottages were organized? He’d probably spent more time in them hunting and fishing than she had. True, she’d stopped once or twice for a quick bite or a moment of “refreshing” but she’d never spent a night in one and she knew when they went hunting her brothers often spent a week. Maybe it was just another of those things that men knew.
“Come here.” He’d taken on that commanding tone again, that tone that had her complying before she even began to think.
“Turn around.”
She did.
The warm water against her cool skin almost brought a purr of pleasure. “I don’t suppose you have any soap in your magic bags.”
“My magic bags? How did you know?” He held up a light yellow lump.
The warm rag stroked between her shoulder blades. The scent of lemons filled her nostrils. She gave it one more try, one more attempt at sanity. “I can wash myself.”
“It’s a hard spot to reach.” The rag slipped beneath the upper edge of her chemise.
True, but how was she going to get clean while staying in her chemise. Perhaps she should ask him to leave so that she could…And put him back out in the cold and the mud. He’d gone out to fetch the water. Surely, it would be cruel to send him out again. Oh, that felt good.
A strap of her chemise slipped from her shoulder, allowing him greater access to her back. She should protest, but…The other strap slipped. The wet cloth moved back and forth across her, as soft as a mother’s kiss, but as thorough as a cat licking her kittens.
Kisses and licks. What would it feel like to have his mouth upon her, to feel him nibbling, to…
Her arms crossed tight about her chest as the chemise threatened to slip farther. Her nipples throbbed under the pressure, the fine cloth abrading against them. What would it feel like if he licked her there, sucked her there? She wasn’t even sure why the thought occurred to her. She didn’t think she’d ever heard of such a thing, but…
He shifted forward, his hips pressing into her behind. The warm cloth moved over her shoulders. Water dripped down her chest, trailing between her breasts. Her neck fell backward, exposing her throat to him.
This was dangerous. In the back of her mind she understood how close this was to their positions the previous morning, but how could her unruly mind resist when it felt so good?
“Do you want me to wash your front?” His voice rumbled against her.
Yes. Yes. Yes. “I am not sure.” It would be impossible to miss just how much the question truly asked.
And why not? She’d never backed away from adventure before, never refused something because of fear. She’d already lost what could be lost. Did she dare reach for what her body so desperately wanted?
Water splashed as he dipped the rag again. The fire had heated the small cabin and any remaining chill was leaving her body quickly. In fact the only place that still felt cold was her…“Perhaps you could wash my feet? I am afraid they must still be filthy.”
“Your feet?” He did not sound happy with the menial task—but then something changed. “Yes, your feet. I think I could be quite content washing your feet.”
What was that husky note in his voice?
He stepped back and she turned her head to protest, but saw him grabbing a chair and pulling it across the floor. He set it in front of the fire, the legs squared with the hearth. “Sit.”
She obeyed without question, glancing down at her feet. They were even dirtier than she had realized.
He slid the tin trough over near her feet and then knelt before her. Dipping the cloth into the warm water, he began to stroke it over her feet. She almost cried from the pleasure of it as the warmth ran over her toes. His fingers were strong, rubbing and kneading the bottoms of her feet. Once the majority of the dirt was removed, he pressed harder, more massage than wash.
“Oh, that’s good.” The words left her mouth before she even knew she said them.
He looked up at her and smiled, then bent back to his task.
He cleaned between her toes with care, sliding his soap-slick fingers back and forth until her whole body seemed caught with the rhythm. When his hands circled her ankle, she shivered slightly. His strong fingers rubbed along the tendons at the back of her ankle. She’d never realized the spot was so sensitive—and so pleasurable. It felt like she was being rubbed all over, tingles spreading up her legs and settling in her belly.
He kept rubbing the spot, his fingers kneading firmly. Did he know what he was doing to her? His head was bent so she could not see his face, but she had a feeling he knew exactly what effect he was having. A groan of pleasure rose in her throat, but she suppressed it. There was no need to let the man know more than he already did.
Finally, his fingers moved up to her calves. Now, that was slightly better. It still felt good, amazing even, but didn’t leave her feeling antsy and needy. And then his fingers went slightly higher, still on her calf, but approaching the tender skin at the back of her knee.
It was hard to stay in her seat. When had her knee become so sensitive? It certainly didn’t feel like that when she washed it.
He dunked the cloth again in warm water.
She closed her eyes, let her head fall back, and gave in to the pleasure.
—
What a sight she was. He’d been taken aback when she’d asked him to wash her feet. He didn’t think anybody had ever asked such a thing of him before—not that he was sure he’d ever washed anybody in his life. But it had taken only a minute for all the possibilities to occur to him. Feet were attached to legs and legs were attached to…
Ah yes, a little foot washing might not be such a bad thing. And that was before he placed her in the chair, the still-damp chemise clinging to her body, her thighs slightly spread.
Not that he meant to do more than wash her feet, wash her—not unless she said yes to more than a moment’s pleasure.
He knelt before her, letting his fingers trace the velvet of her skin. He trailed his fingers back and forth over the tender skin at the back of her knees, watching every quiver and jerk. When her head fell back, exposing her long, gentle throat, he almost moaned himself. The angle thrust her breasts out, the nipples heavy against the thin fabric, the dusky rose of her nipples showing through. He let his hands wander further. Dipped the cloth back in the water before rubbing the coarse fabric against her soft flesh.
Her head came up as his hands slipped beneath the chemise, moving up her thighs. He could feel her nervous tension, the muscles of her thighs tightening beneath his touch. Watching her closely, he pushed the bottom of the chemise up. She did not move herself, but her eyes tracked the edge of the cloth. He wondered what would be too far. He inched higher, stopping to pay attention to each delicate piece of flesh.
Her breathing was quickening and he could see her eyes grow darker and darker. Again he let his gaze shift between eyes and lips, lingering on each. She squirmed slightly, her thighs spreading farther.
He inched higher.
He stopped and warmed the cloth again.
Did he dare? No, he should not. But what of her? What if he only brought her pleasure, helped to erase any bad memories of yesterday morning? Wouldn’t that be doing her a favor?
Keeping his eyes fa
stened on hers, he moved to her upper thighs, watching the quivers that took her. She was extremely sensitive. He moved the cloth to the crease between thigh and torso, cleaning carefully, but never dropping eye contact.
Her lips parted as if to speak, but only a single long sigh escaped them.
He let the tips of his fingers brush against her curls.
She drew in a sharp breath.
He brushed again.
She bit down on her lower lip. He could see the dilemma in her eyes. She knew she should tell him to stop, but she didn’t want to. She was remembering too well the pleasure that her body had begun to experience yesterday.
Trailing his fingers, he moved the rag to the other leg, starting just above the knee, granting her the chance to decide what it was that she did want, to decide how far she was willing to let them go.
And how far was he planning on taking it? His mouth watered with the thought of tasting her. He hadn’t had the chance for that yesterday and, as the scent of her womanly musk filled his nostrils, he could imagine no greater pleasure. Well, parts of him could. The throbbing member between his legs was quite sure what it thought would be the greatest pleasure, and no mouths were involved—at least not his own. His cock was quite sure that an acquaintance with her lips might be just the thing. But that could not be allowed—not unless…“Have you decided to agree to marriage?” he asked abruptly.
“What?” Her pupils narrowed.
“Have you decided to marry me? Oh, don’t look at me in that fashion. I am not trying to force you—at least not yet, but neither am I willing to risk an even greater chance of a child.”
“Oh.” She started to sit up straighter, to pull away from him.
“I should be clear. I am not saying that I would stop washing you. You are still very dirty…very dirty.” He brushed his fingers over her curls again, pressing slightly more, feeling the dampness that grew there, dampness that had nothing to do with rainwater. “I merely wish to know which road we should take. There are many things we can do that will not result in a child—and given that we are already…already well acquainted, I do not see that there would be harm in a little experimentation, in bringing you pleasure.” And perhaps it would help persuade her to marriage.