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But he could not. She may have allowed him to touch her out of pity for the lonely scholar he must seem to be in her eyes. She called him a handsome young man, surely implying she would not take a younger man like him seriously. Whichever the case, what was clear was that he stood no chance of accompanying her to her chambers at that moment. So his only choice was to nod agreement and stand up when she did. They bid good-night to each other, and the kitchen became the coldest of places with her absence.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sam questioned the wisdom of his decision to stay in with a book as he sat on a settee in the professor’s drawing room the next evening. Harriet sat straight with a book of her own right across from him, her tea on the side table. The simple chignon, the demure light-blue dress and her engrossed stance did nothing to distract him from the gnawing desire coursing through him. The gnawing desire that had poured through him the whole day.
They had worked diligently on the paper from morning until dinner, having nearly finished it for him to present to the visiting group of botanists arriving at Oxford shortly. The work was diverting, but did not erase the tension clouding the air between them every minute they spent in the same room.
Like now, for example.
The fire in the fireplace and the candle lights they used for reading fell on her with a warm glow. They emphasised her delicate nose, the satiny skin of her cheeks and neck and the wheat wisps of hair framing her face. All he wanted was to kneel before her seat, take her in his arms and kiss her until the end of time.
On his armchair, he went utterly still as the vision of her worked its way in his blood with inevitable intensity.
Perhaps, he should retire to his chamber and stop this torture, or at least douse its raging effects.
Abruptly, she lifted her head, and their stares clashed, causing his body to react with unbearable—and embarrassing—swiftness. She must have realised he had not moved in ages, no crossing or uncrossing of legs, no turning of pages, not even breath.
“What is it, Samuel?” she asked, going motionless herself.
Damn his colouring for showing the furious red that burned on the surface. Momentarily, his voice failed him, then his mind as it blanked. In a struggle to react and answer, he said the first thing that came to his mouth.
“I’d like to see you,” the shameful request aired low and hoarse, he swallowed hard and tried to apologise, but no words came.
Her feminine nostrils took in air in a faint gasp, but did not release it. “You’re seeing me,” she replied in a silky tone.
He could take it back and claim misunderstanding. Or he could reiterate it, repeat it, delight himself in the mere idea of it if she became outraged.
“Can I-can I see you, that is...well…you know,”
The revealing blush covered even the tips of her shapely ears. “You mean you want—” her lashes fluttered in the heavy silence that ensued.
“Yes, I do,” he stated, filling the quietness with more tension. “As a scientist,” what gibberish is this, McDougal? He admonished himself. There would be no red-blooded male on this planet that would have the remotest scientific curiosity where she was concerned. Not this cold or analytical in any case, least of all academic.
“Samuel,” it came so faint it seemed almost a moan. Her book closed, forgotten.
“W-would you lie down and let me—” the feverish wave that travelled to his groin prevented him from completing the sentence.
Her gaze darted down to her slippers, hiding under her prudish skirts. God, prudish must be the most erotic thing since the invention of the wheel, for it turned him on in seconds. He had gone so hard it ached.
Their eyes continued absorbing each other, her finger clawed at her skirts in a clear sign of ragged resistance.
“Please,” he uttered in a coaxing tone.
She looked at him, then to the settee, then at him again. He body shifted a fraction of an inch, froze. The book fell on the carpet with a muffled thud. Her hands adjusted her skirts to cover her better, then let it go. She froze again for several heartbeats, making his own heart stop in the process as he literally held his breath.
As if making a decision, her feet slid her slippers off and she rotated onto the settee, knees bent. Her frame rigid, she straightened her spine and dared not direct her gaze to him.
Afraid she might change her mind, he fairly flew to the seat across from him, sitting on the other end. Her eyes flashed on his middle, one hand going to her bosom as if stopping herself from reaching out.
Slow, so slow, he placed one long-fingered hand on each dainty foot, covering them, registering the demure stockings. Warm and soft, they tantalised his palms. He felt weak and powerful at the same time. This woman was bestowing the precious privilege of her person on him. He became so aroused and awed at the same time he did not wish to spoil the moment.
Her skirts covered his hands as he slid them up shapely calves, taking the fabric with the movement. Their eyes locked in simmering expectation, her chest raising and falling in short intakes of oxygen.
Sam had not the slightest idea of what women’s underclothes were or looked like. So, he let his hands follow the stockings as a myriad of fabrics bunched on his wrists. He kept going because not doing it would be the death of him.
He travelled over her slim knees only to count another flimsy piece of clothing. “I did not know there were so many layers,” he commented when his fingers sneaked under those too.
“These are the drawers,” she informed breathless, relaxed enough and leaning on the settee’s arm.
