Page 41 of Who’s That Earl

For a moment, she looked as if she weren’t quite sure whether to believe him. Then her lips curved in an answering smile, just a trifle wicked. She picked up the candlestick and darted through the bedchamber door, dragging him behind her.

Chapter 15

He was still looking at her with that easy, mischievous grin when she released his hand and took a step away from him to set the candlestick on the nightstand. After turning the key in the lock, he crossed his arms before him to grab either side of his shirt and tugged it the rest of the way free from the band of his breeches. In one fluid motion, he slipped the tea-stained garment over his head and tossed it away.

From the waist up at least, every inch of him was as tanned as what she’d already glimpsed, and warmed now by the glow of candlelight. Either he’d had a habit of going about half naked, or the tropical sun had been strong enough to brown a man’s skin right through the fabric of his shirt. The dark, curling hair on his chest grew in a diamond shape, thickest across his breastbone, then tapering to a thin line that disappeared into his breeches, like the tail of a kite.

She wouldn’t let her gaze drop any lower. His lean, muscled arms and chest were quite enough to be going on with. She wanted to run her fingertips over every inch of skin he’d revealed, even the long, thin scar near his ribs, a reminder of the dangers he’d already survived. Wanted to rub her cheek against that silky hair and breathe in the manly scent of him. Wanted to...

“Turn about’s fair play, lass,” he murmured, and when she raised her eyes to his face, his eyebrows lifted suggestively. The knowing warmth behind his gaze made her press her thighs together, the movement thankfully hidden by the loose fit of her gown.

With a catch of breath, she let the blanket around her shoulders slip to the floor, then raised one hand to the ribbon that gathered the neck of her nightgown. She looked down at her fingers, tangled in the narrow silk. “I don’t...Shouldn’t we douse the candle?”

“Now, what would be the fun in that?”

He’d let her look. Now he wanted to see. Fair play, just as he’d said. Still she hesitated. Though he’d tried to hide it, she’d seen the state Thomas had been in while reading of fair, delicate Ophelia’s willing submission to Lord Ruthveyn. “I—I’m afraid I don’t look anything like the heroine of a Robin Ratliff novel.”

Had more ridiculous words ever been uttered? Anyone could see she was...

Her mind cast around for a word, something other than ample, after their conversation earlier that day. Sturdy had been Mama’s favored description of her daughter’s frame, when she was feeling generous. A dressmaker had once called her plump, like a Christmas goose.

Thomas stepped toward her, reached for the ribbon—no, for her hand. His warm fingers encircled hers, not to urge her on, but to stay her fidgeting movement. “’Tis not looks that make a heroine, Jane. ’Tis spirit, and strength of mind, and bravery. All those you have.” With one finger, he lifted her chin so she could not avoid his eyes. “And more.”

Spirit. Bravery. Yes, she could do this. She wanted this. Beneath his light touch, she wound the ribbon around her index finger and slipped the knot free. With a bit of tugging and coaxing, the neckline of the garment loosened enough to slide over her shoulders, then lower. Over breasts entirely too full to suit the latest fashions. Over her soft, fleshy belly. Down dimpled thighs, and onto the floor.

When Thomas backed away from her, her eyes fell shut, and her heart hammered in her chest. No, she wasn’t brave. She wasn’t spirited. How could she have been so—?

“Turn around.”

That growled command made her skin prickle, though not with fear. Slowly, carefully so as not to tangle her feet in her nightgown, she spun until she was facing away from him.

In the beat of silence that followed, she hugged her arms to her chest and tried not to imagine what he must he be thinking.

But it was impossible to forget what he’d told her before, about the day they’d first met. When she’d been so saucy as to favor him with her backside. And he’d...

“I’ll not deny there’s lads who like a slender lass.” His whispered voice had not lost its rough edge. “But a writer such as yourself would do well to remember that not all heroes are alike.” As he spoke, he moved closer, though still not touching her. “Not every man has an appetite that’s satisfied by dainties.” She shivered at the warmth radiating from his body. “I, for one, prefer a feast.”

When he trailed a string of hot kisses along the curve of her shoulder, the prickle of his beard rough against her soft skin, her shiver turned into a shudder of longing. “What is it you want tonight, Jane?” His manhood nudged against her bottom, as if seeking an answer.

Strength of mind, he’d claimed she had. But in that moment, her thoughts were a jumble. The wildest flights of her imagination. Naughty pictures from a book she’d once stumbled upon—her first foray into “research” for one of her novels. Urges both new and familiar coursing through her blood and tingling in that hidden spot at the juncture of her thighs.

Then, in a flash, all of those trembling desires and heady fantasies coalesced into one. One urgent, primal need. “I—I want—” Her chest heaved with the effort of forming words. “I want you to hold me. Please—just hold me.”

She would have spun to face him, but his arms came around her before she could move. She sagged against his strength, absorbed the sensation of his skin against hers. The hair on his chest tickled against her back as their ragged breaths rose and fell together. His lips settled on the crown of her head and did not move.

If she’d thought about it, she would have expected a man in this position to try to cup her breast, or even her mound. They were all but naked in her bedchamber, where she’d invited him, after all, and the evidence of his own desire was still pressed urgently against the small of her back.

But Thomas seemed to know that this was not yet the time for such intimacies. That, in this moment, what she needed was simply what she’d asked for: the feel of his arms around her. The human contact she’d so long denied herself. The care and understanding she’d always been denied.

How long they stood in that posture she could never afterward have said. Nor was she sure who moved first. But, eventually, she turned in the circle of his embrace, raised her arms to wrap them around his neck, brushed the aching tips of her breasts across the crisp hair of his chest. And he splayed one hand between her shoulder blades to draw her closer, rubbed lazy circles over her bottom with his other palm, and kissed her.

If their kiss before had been bruising, this was the balm, the gentle caress of lips willing to part for the pure pleasure of coming together again. When his tongue teased, she met it with the shy touch of her own, as they tasted one another’s sighs and drank one another’s breath. Need was coursing through her body, but she held it at bay, because she wanted these playful sensations too. Wanted everything this night could give her.

And more.

Oh, God.

Her heart leaped in her chest, like a startled doe desperate for freedom. More? Was she making a terrible mistake? What if she didn’t wake up satisfied? What if she woke up aching? Every morning for the rest of her life...