Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

Tapping her cheek, she thought about it and decided, “I would enjoy the pirate, but it seems as if that position would be uncomfortable. In your arms, I think.”

“As you desire.” Sweeping her up, he carried her across the threshold—a matter of some significance, in Jessie’s mind—and through the sitting room, stopping every few feet to kiss her again, as if he couldn’t bear to be without her for even a moment.

She liked that notion. She liked his kisses. She liked the way he held her, close against his chest. She would like him to be a part of her, for from him she would draw fierceness and courage, two virtues that seemed in short supply these days. Slowly, haltingly, they made their way toward the open door whence light spilled forth, and at last, after another passionate kiss, he bore her through the door of the bedchamber.

The room was plain, containing only a dressing table, a chair, a chest of drawers and a bed hung with netting. The old-fashioned furniture was painted white, and fat candles flickered on every surface, lending the atmosphere a warm and golden glow. Bouquets of purple, orange, and yellow wildflowers stood in vases, and their sweet, spicy scent permeated the air. The covers had been turned back, revealing lacy white sheets and mounds of soft pillows, and a silver tray rested on the tables beside the bed, with an open bottle of wine and two goblets.

Openmouthed with amazement, Jessie stared about her. “Harry, tell me—do you always sleep surrounded by flowers?”

“It’s Dehaan’s doing. He’s a dreamer.” Harry sounded resigned as he allowed her to slide to her feet. Removing his coat, he glanced about for somewhere to place it. At last, with a grimace, he tossed it on the floor. “I believe Dehaan had hopes I would bring you back here.” Unknotting his cravat, he flung it after the coat, removed his collar and spread his shirt wide at the neck. At last he looked up, and noticed how she stared. Extending a hand to her, he said, “Don’t be offended. I never dared imagine the evening would end this way. Dehaan acted completely on his own.”

Mute, she nodded, but she didn’t take Harry’s hand. The candlelight didn’t soften him. Instead it showed the edges of his mask, and beneath the mask she caught glimpses of the granite that formed his character. She didn’t know this man. She didn’t know him at all.

Misunderstanding her trepidation, Harry said, “I’m not the kind of man who makes his amours known.”

“No,” she whispered. “No, I didn’t think you were.” He wasn’t the kind of man who made anything about himself known. He was an enigma, a puzzle which she didn’t yet understand.

But he was handsome and strong. His chin was dark with the shadow of a beard. His neck was corded with muscle. In the vee of his shirt, she could see smooth, brown skin, and near the bottom the faintest hint of curling chest hair. She didn’t understand why, but seeing him here, in privacy, with the secret of intimacy surrounding them, made her sure of her decision. Harry was a man in a world of spoiled lads. Harry could be battered by life and withstand its every hardship. In fact, she was sure he already had.

Standing very still, he watched her, hands open and arms wide. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No. Oh, no.”

In a world where all her choices had narrowed down to three, her heart had been captured by the one man she was never supposed to know. He laughed at her and with her, he rescued her from unwelcome suitors—and he obviously adored her breasts. He must; he kept sneaking peeks at them. Yes, he wanted her, yet now, when they were alone in the night with nothing between them except their clothes, he waited on her decision. Again. She didn’t know him. She shouldn’t trust him. But she loved him.

She loved him.

Her burst of joy couldn’t be contained. She gave him a impish grin, a grin that startled him and make him wary in his turn.

The windows were open. The curtains fluttered in the breeze, and this part of the cottage was set high enough above the ground that no evening stroller could accidentally view the proceedings.

Taking a deep breath, she watched as his attention wavered between her face and her bosom. She sashayed toward him. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

He stood unmoving.

She flirted with her eyes, fluttering her lashes. When she stood close enough to feel his heat, she walked her fingers down his waistcoat, unbuttoning each button with the care of an accomplished valet. “I want this night with you to last me forever.”

He cleared his throat. “That’s a tall order.”

She slid her hands under his shirt, and pressed her palms against his abdomen. It was firm, and rippled with muscle, and naked. She’d never stroked a man’s bare skin. Never experienced the contrast between smooth flesh and the rough growth of hair down his breastbone and along the center of his stomach.

Her lashes drooped as she pressed her palms against him. She savored the heat of his flesh, the rise and fall of his breath. The intent gleam of his blue eyes made her feel quite …well… aroused. Aroused as she had never been reading romantical novels by candlelight. Her breath hurried and tripped. Her breasts felt as they had when he caressed them. Overly warm and tingling. And between her legs, she was slightly aching. Slightly…damp.

“I realize you’re new to this, and so I would offer a suggestion. You should remove my trousers.”

She gurgled with laughter, then teased him with the honors she would grant him. “Yes, my lord.”

His eyebrows winged upward; he stared at her as if she’d said something extraordinary. “What do you mean, calling me that?”

“Would you rather I called you sultan?” Beneath her hands, his taut muscles relaxed. “Or master?” One by one, she twitched the buttons of his trousers free.

“Master. That would fulfill a particular fantasy I’ve had about you.”

Her fingers stopped their journey. “What?”

He smiled down at her breasts, then into her eyes. “I’ll tell you some other night.”

There wouldn’t be another night. They both knew that…didn’t they?