For You Alone (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 2)
Page 30
“No, please let me.” In two steps she was before him. Her soft hands took his away and placed them at his side. She then began working him free of the vest. He was enthralled with her actions. “These are not so small as mine,” she said, her fingers nimble and deliberate.
“Nor as many. There is an inherent unfairness in this.” He could not see her face, but the way the light danced on her hair and her hands undressing him was a fresh agony. The slight pressure of her work on his chest and stomach was maddening. He thanked God his waistcoat was of the newer style and short, for he doubted he could bear such sweet torture much longer.
“There, I am finished.” Her eyes were bright with the fire’s glow and, he hoped, anticipation. Her hands eased under the vest, brushing his ribs, and pulling it gently off his shoulders. Everywhere she touched him was set on fire; his thin lawn shirt offered no defence. Stepping closer, her hands blazed a trail the length of his arms before she took the vest and placed it with the coat.
His breathing was ragged and his heart racing. He could only imagine how far she intended to take her “help.” She returned and began to untie his neck cloth. “For a sailor, this is not a very complicated knot.” He stooped slightly as she reached up to unwrap the cloth from around his neck. They were so close that all he need do was move and inch or two closer and he could take her in his arms, kiss her, and begin to find some relief. But as much as he wished relief, he wanted more to see what his dear wife was about. He suspected her subdued nature quailed at this explicit seduction, but she carried it on, and carried it on most lovingly. Watching her fold the cloth and place it with his other clothes, he could see her hands shake. She took a deep breath before returning to him.
Her fingers grazed his neck when she reached up to unfasten the placket button of his shirt. He took her hand and guided it to his lips. She breathed in sharply. “I must finish.” Her voice was thick like honey and so low he could barely hear it. He released her hand, but put his hands on her waist. He felt the button release. It had not been tight, but he felt a little relief with air on his neck. The coolness disappeared immediately, replaced by her lips. He groaned as she kissed the exposed skin.
“Annie,” was all he could whisper.
He could feel her pulling his shirt from his trousers. There she stopped. He was almost relieved. The pause gave him time to gather his thoughts. There was nothing wrong with what she did; he was in fact delighted, but there was a danger that he might not control himself as strictly as he wished. He knew her worries, and he was determined that he would give her no reason to think him more animal than any other healthy man in the bedchamber. Her fingers moved, then stilled again. He looked down. Her head rested against his chest. She breathed heavily but did not move.
He stroked her back with one hand. “Is something wrong, Annie dear?” The name came so naturally.
She did not look up but said, “I have come to the end of all my bravado.” She turned her head and rested her cheek against him now.
He drew her fully into his arms. “You have been playing a part for me?” He could not help but feel honoured that she would so bravely put herself forward for his pleasure.
Her voice quavered. “I wanted you to know you are not married to a timid little mouse.”
The words seemed familiar but he couldn’t place them and didn’t care to dilute the moment.
“You are a passionate man, and I must learn to deal with it.” She raised her head. “No, I must learn to revel in it and be a living part of it.”
“You are not timid, my dear. Any woman who shamelessly buys a man to take her to Gretna Green cannot be counted as timid.” He caught her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “As for the seduction,” he smiled broadly, “it is greatly appreciated, but to be honest, you began that work many years ago. And it has held fast.” He punctuated each word with a kiss.
He picked her up, but she protested, “You needn’t carry me; the bed is just a few steps.”
He called up a look he thought seductive and said, “I don’t want a bit of your energy wasted by walking.” Her eyes widened and she laughed quietly.
Frederick Wentworth was indeed a man of the world, but he knew for certain every locale offered its own particular pleasures.
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End
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