AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Why did it matter so much to him? And why did confessing it feel like she was stepping off a cliff, making her heart pound? “I do.”
He released her and relaxed, his lips, cloaked in soap, twisting in a little, satisfied smile. “Good.”
They were silent for a long moment, his gaze tight on her, watching her every move until she thought she was desperate to hide from the inspection. As she began shaving his neck, she whispered, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“The blade at your throat isn’t enough of a reason?”
“I confess, Adelaide, I enjoy looking at you enough to take the risk.”
Her eyes met his then, that deep cerulean blue, and she shook her head. “I can’t concentrate if you’re watching me.”
His fingers tightened on her waist at the confession andhe grumbled, “Only because I want this to go as quickly as possible.” He closed his eyes, and she took the opportunity to steal a look at him. To lock away a memory of this moment, his dark, impossibly long lashes against his cheeks, dots of soap at intervals across his face, the newly formed bump on his bruised nose—hoarded proof that he’d thrown himself into battle for her. That he’d been hers for a heartbeat.
“If I can’t look at you, at least let me hear you,” he said, the words shaking her from her inspection.
“Shall I tell you a story?” she said, letting herself tease him. Just for now. Just for tonight.
“Yes.” He leapt upon the question. “Tell me a hundred of them.”
She smiled at this new man—nothing like the duke she’d once thought him—and dragged the razor back and forth in the warm water. “What would you like to hear?”
“Tell me who you were when you were young.”
She shook her head before she remembered that he could not see it. Working carefully at the underside of his chin, she said softly, “There are too many stories, and none that make for good storytelling.”
“That suggests there are many that make for good storytelling, sweet. Come... you can surely find one.”
What could she tell him that would not remind him of the differences between them? The story of her learning to pick pockets? The story of always, always feeling alone?
The story of finding a man she wished to be alone with?
Stalling for time, she reminded him, “You owe me a story, too. Your first kiss.”
He opened his eyes, reaching up to stroke a thumb over her cheekbone before he said, “I find I cannot remember any kisses before yours, Miss Frampton.”
She couldn’t help the sound that came, something thatcould only be described as a giggle. “I’m sure that’s not true. Close your eyes.”
“It is,” he said, doing as he was told. “I can only hope you are as superior a barber as you are a kisser?”
She smiled, enjoying the tease. Enjoying him, as she checked her work, looking for extra bits of beard that she might have missed. “I would not like you to be dissatisfied.”
“Oh, I am dissatisfied,” he rumbled, low and soft and so close. “So much so that I think I deserve restitution.”
She reached for the towel she’d set next to them, reaching up to wipe soap from his smooth face.
“Beard restitution?”
“Mmm.” That sound. That singular, delicious sound. Would she ever be unmoved by it?
Leaning back, she considered her handiwork. “I’ve done quite well, I’m afraid. No restitution necessary.”
“Then I am left with payment. Name your price.”
Kiss me.
She would never know if she’d given voice to the thought. It did not matter. Because he did as she asked, pulling her to meet him, licking into her mouth and giving her the kiss she’d been aching for, his hands chasing over her waist to hold her on his lap as her hands tangled in his hair and she kissed him back, matching him move for move, until the kiss ended and they gasped for air.
