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She leaned her head back against his shoulder to gaze up at him.
Sunlight from the oblong windows gleamed on walnut damp hair, his hazel eyes smouldering with undeniable fire.
Not twelvemonth ago, she’d sniggered her stockings off when the hero of a romantic Gothic novel had smouldered.
Yet here it was. Smouldering at its utmost.
His fingers clenched at her waist, material rucking, and she couldn’t help but sink into his form, let her head tip forward, let his lips wander across her nape.
Kissing and sucking the skin to his mouth.
She moaned, hands clutching behind, to buckskin and–
A strident knock and Matilda startled, pitching her head back and causing Seth to yelp as he abruptly released her.
In the doorway, Betty held a tray with three glasses while Chloe clutched a jug of lemonade, her eyes widening in tandem with her gasp. “Miss Griffin!” She pursed her lips. “Well done.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to…”
But Chloe nodded in approval. “There’s not many that can split Pa’s lip with a reverse nobbler to the ivories.”
“But–”
“It takes a lot of skill,” she commended. “Now, have some lemonade.”
Betty placed the tray on a side table and cast a pitying glance. “And I’ll fetch yer a cold compress, Mr H…to take down that swelling.”
