The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress (The Lairds Most Likely 7)

Watching him wash his member brought back memories of having him deep inside her. A shiver of profound pleasure rippled through her. Already she wanted him again. He turned her into a glutton for his body.

After he’d dried himself, he emptied the bowl, then filled it again and carried it across to the bed. "At least I can do a better job this time than I managed in the carriage."

"You don’t have to act my servant."

The tenderness tinging his smile made her want to cry. Which was mad, after the most joyous experience of her life. But she knew Brock well enough to recognize that while passion was nothing new to him, perhaps this poignant sweetness was.

"Let me care for you."

She stretched out against the crumpled sheets. "I’m not used to people seeking my comfort."

His features darkened, and those expressive black brows lowered over his arrogant blade of a nose. Another surge of emotion overwhelmed her. She wasn’t used to people being angry on her behalf either.

"While you’re with me, you’re my priority."

He dipped the flannel into the bowl and began to wipe her stomach. While the water was only lukewarm, it felt glorious on her skin. Or perhaps it felt glorious because Brock did the honors.

"I hate that life is such a lonely fight for you, Selina," he murmured, concentrating on washing her. "I’d change that if I could."

Brock cut straight to her core, so deep and with such ease. She blinked back foolish tears. She had no idea he’d guessed so much about her life without him.

Oh, dear. With every moment, the bond between them strengthened, defied her claim that this affair was a matter of physical attraction alone. She was in such trouble here. And she had no idea how to fix it.

At Derwent Hall, she’d spoken so blithely about choosing a lover who wouldn’t fall in love with her. But what if she fell in love herself? She didn’t want to leave Essex with a broken heart. After a mere day in Brock’s company, she feared it might already be too late to save herself.

As if he hadn’t changed her world in a few simple words, he rinsed the flannel and began to run it over her breasts. His tender care thrilled her to her soul.

"Things…things aren’t so bad as that," she stammered.

Amusement kicked up one corner of the thin mouth that she’d once thought rather cruel. She didn’t think that now. "Liar."

She didn’t argue, because what could she say when dreary duty was all that life had offered her? Except for Gerald. "I find happiness in my son. It’s something."

Brock’s lips flattened. He lifted one arm and washed that, too, paying attention to her hands and fingers. Nobody had washed her since she was a child. This didn’t feel at all like that. "Not enough."

"It has to be." A world of regret burdened her words. "Now at least I’ll have the memories of a week in a rake’s arms."

He lifted her other arm and ran the damp flannel from shoulder to wrist. "I wish…"

No, she couldn’t bear to hear him say it. If she let herself wish for more, it would crush her. She couldn’t even let him say the words. More tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. After Wednesday, she’d have plenty of time to cry. A lifetime.

She reached over and caught his hand. "Don’t."

"I’m sorry." He shook his head

. "It’s just…"

"I know," she said in a choked voice and closed eyes that ached with the weight of moisture dammed behind the lids.

She heard him rinse the cloth again, the splash of the water a soft counterpoint to her uneven breathing. She felt the damp cloth on her thighs, before Brock parted her legs and began to wash her sex.

"You leave me no modesty," she muttered.

Selina opened her eyes to see him smiling again. It seemed a less convincing effort than usual, but she appreciated that he drew back from talking about the end of their affair. Already she was too aware of how short their time together was. More reason not to poison their few days with fretting about the ending that sped toward them.

"Modesty is overrated."

He wasn’t touching her with any hint of lechery, yet her oversensitive flesh sent messages of sexual pleasure leaping through her. By the time he finished, she was trembling.