She reached for his cravat. “May I?”
“You’re certain?” His eyes were hot on hers. “Very, very certain?”
She plucked the cravat pin from the starched linen and tossed it atop her dressing table.
“I’m very, very certain,” she assured him.
For all the teasing of her beguiling botanist, Olive gave “deflowering” little to no importance at all. No one could know for certain what a woman had or had not experienced unless she told him. And it was absolutely ridiculous that women were to stay pure whilst men could be as wild as they pleased.
Who were they meant to be wildwith, if not women who chose the same freedom?
Besides, she was no debutante. Those years were long past. Like her, Elijah had been manipulated by Olive’s father. Refusing to play by their parents’ rules gave them the freedom to do what they really wanted.
And what Olive wanted was Elijah.
She unbuttoned his jacket and took her time pushing it off his broad shoulders, tugging the sleeves down over the thick muscles of his strong arms.
How she had scoffed at women who claimed they could only fall for a specific type of man!
Olive’s type, apparently, was burly botanist.
Once she’d divested him of his jacket, she turned her attention to his waistcoat.
“This apparel is astonishingly well made,” he said. “The fine materials, the exceptional craftsmanship...”
“I’m throwing it all on the floor,” she assured him, and tossed the waistcoat to one side. “Boots, please.”
“Ah, yes. Boots can be difficult.” He sat down on her dressing-stool and pulled off his Hessians one by one. “May I stand them upright, or must I toss them willy-nilly to one side?”
“Only I can toss things.” She pulled him off the stool and to his feet.
He was now standing before her in his shirtsleeves and trousers, both of them in their stocking feet, his hands holding hers. She’d expected it to feel breathtakingly lascivious.
Instead, it felt intimate. Less like clandestine lovers meeting for a quick tup, and more like... the sort of moment shared between two people on their wedding night.
She tugged the hem of his shirt up from the waistband of his trousers.
“Shall I kiss your stomach, as you did to me?”
“You can do anything you want.” His gaze was intense, his eyes serious. “I’m yours.”
“For the night,” she reminded him.
“For two nights and a day,” he corrected her.
She smiled. He was savoring every moment just like she was.
She lowered herself to one knee to press a kiss to the strip of bare skin she’d exposed between his shirt hem and waistband.
A thick scar bisected one side of his firm abdomen. Two smaller scars crisscrossed the other side.
Frowning, she kissed each one, then raised the shirt higher.
A crosshatch of scars covered his chest and sides and back, some old and pale, others stiff and stark.
“What happened?” she asked quietly, pressing a kiss to every patch of skin, scarred and unscarred.
“Horses,” he said flatly. “Father was furious that his heir was a lesser rider than the daughter of his enemy. A girl! It could not stand. Hadn’t I seen the tricks you could perform?”
