Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

He watched her through slitted eyes, and she would have sworn the gleam burned as hot as blue coals. To have this man, with his aura of danger, look at her so intently was a lovemaking in itself. With him, she was beautiful and clever and desirable and wanted. Wanted for more than her fortune and her figure, but also for her humor, which most men did not understand, and her smile, which so many considered proved her frivolity. Harry made her feel perfect just the way she was.

As quickly as she could, she finished unbuttoning him.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Unbuttoning buttons. It’s not so difficult.”

“Saucy.” He slid his arms out of his waistcoat and let it drop.

“I know how to untie a bow, too.” She showed him the cord of his drawers. “Watch this.” Leisurely, she pulled until his underwear loosened and slid down his hips. His shirt drooped down to his thighs, a sheer, white barrier that hid him and protected her—for the moment.

He placed his hands on her shoulders as if he feared she would run at the fearsome sight of him. “You’re in grave danger,” he said.

“Am I?” She skimmed her hands down his thighs, assisting the clothing on its fall to the ground. “Am I indeed? What danger is that?” The material tented over his groin in a most intriguing manner. “The danger of being impaled?”

“Yes.”

“Of experiencing too much bliss?”

“S

o I pray.”

“So do I, my dear sir, and probably twice as fervently as you.” Curiosity and caution warred in her.

Curiosity won.

She urged him to abandon the puddle of his trousers, and when he had, she stepped back and viewed him, standing clad only in his shirt.

His calves were muscled, his thighs defined strength. Slowly she lifted the shirttails, teasing him by drawing out the tension. But her own nerves stretched taut, and she quietly moaned as his manhood came into view. He was large and beautifully formed, with blue veins beneath smooth, pale skin. A purple cap circled the top, and a drop of white liquid eased from the opening.

“You didn’t run screaming. A good sign.” Satisfaction eased through his voice.

She touched the sac that hung close to the base, using her thumb to seek out the rounded contents, which rolled away from her touch. Sliding one finger up the length of him, she marveled at the satiny skin.

His hands flexed on her shoulders, and when she gazed into his face, his eyes were closed, and he looked like a thirsty man savoring his first sip of water.

Again she was aware of the dampness between her legs, the full sensation in her womb, the desire, so new and yet so familiar. This sensation was more intense than she’d imagined, and with the intensity came a sense of worship, as if the two of them were indulging in some great, primitive rite of mating that united them forever.

Yet there would be no tomorrow.

She drew the shirt upward and over his head. He helped her, wincing when he lifted his arm and eased away his sleeve.

As she dropped the shirt, she swallowed a gasp. For his shoulder bore the scar of a terrible wound. “Harry,” she breathed. “What happened?”

“I stood in the wrong place at the wrong time.” His brow was lowered, his voice terse.

She caressed the scar, puckered and pink. “You’re lucky to be alive.” She traced the evidence of each purple stitch. “You must have been in agony.”

“It’s never agreeable.”

An understatement, and one that indicated he had other experience with such agony. She kissed his scar. “Poor Harry, I might never have known you.” Her voice thickened at the thought of such deprivation. “You must promise me never to—” A long, thin line across his belly caught her attention. “What did you do here?”

“I…fell.”

At his odd tone, she glanced up at him and saw the lie. “A knife fight.”

“It was a slight wound, done eight years ago.”