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“Not at all, Harriet,” he answered, unable to control his gaze when it lowered to her full lips. Her tongue moistened them, causing his heart to speed up and pump even more blood to the wrong place.
Sam was well aware that he would never be any woman’s choice—not first choice, at least. Too awkward, too red-haired, too big spectacles. And bookish to distraction, he did not come out as exactly charming or manly. Paying for their favour might be his last resort.
“We should continue then,” she replied but did not bend those blue temptations to their work. Instead, her gaze roamed from the slick hair falling on his brow, the green eyes fixed on her, to zero in on his lips, which were as red as his— Well…the tip of him, the very leaky tip of him.
The things his friends said a woman’s lips could do!
Fuck!
He needed to leave the room. At this second! Or he risked shaming himself. Worse still, his distended member demanded its due fare. One unavailable to him. So he must go and get the relief that was at his disposal.
“Excuse me,” he said and stood up fast and clumsy. In shirtsleeves, without a coat to cover his denouncing midriff, he turned in a quick motion. Out of the study, he nearly ran to the chamber Professor Hayley allowed him to use in his absence. To protect Harriet, the Professor said.
At that instant, he was not so sure she was that protected.
With that thought, he burst into his chamber and shut it with an urgent click.
Harriet followed Samuel’s retreat with interest. She knew exactly what was happening to him, what usually happened to men lusting after a woman.
At thirty-one, widowhood did not intimidate her. Long ago, such status meant she obtained release from a bad marriage. If her late husband understood that drinking and brawling in London’s underworld consisted of the best amusement life could offer—and then die from one of those soused fisticuffs—it was nothing to do with her. Except she had been left poor and indebted, desperately in need of employment.
The polished education her father, an attorney for the crown, bestowed on her, came in as her salvation. One year into her position, the Professor had brought the Scot. Mr McDougal had been barely more than a lad at the time.
She thought the awe with which he boyishly regarded her endearing, certain he would grow out of it. The freshman possessed his own lodgings near the campus, afforded by his powerful Highlander of a father. Academic assignments brought him often into the house to work with the Professor.
He grew into a man before her very eyes. Lean and tall, six feet four probably, the round spectacles did not hide the clear green eyes or the freckles on his translucent skin. As he came into adulthood, though, his hair darkened into a reddish brown and his cherry lips firmed into a sensuous shape. It made him compelling in a distinct way. The fact he treated her with nothing but the utmost respect, despite his obvious desire, counted points in his favour.
All of a sudden, her mind started weaving the most absurd reveries involving her employer’s protégé. Together with shameful body reactions she never ever dreamed of transpiring in her arid and infrequent marriage bed. She took note of this awareness of him mere months ago, the discomfort of it wreaking havoc with her lucidity and composure. She must be an inglorious wanton to harbour such unacceptable tendencies towards a man who not only was much younger than her, but also a part of the Scottish lofty aristocracy.
As Samuel took his leave, she did not miss the immense bulge in the front of his breeches. Her fingers itched to undo each button on either side of his hipbones, letting the flap fall to wrap her hand around him. Test the hardness, the heat—tunnel her fingers along its whole extension. The ache and moistness the image produced got her breathless. And eager for any resolution.
Would the hair cradling him between his thighs be lighter or darker than the slick strands on his head?
The afterthought brought a scalding flush to the surface.
What the deuce!
