Seven Years to Sin(21)
“Some men’s hands give nothing but pain.”
He knew she could not be speaking of Tarley. The rapport between them had been evident to one and all. “Of whom do you speak?”
She moved. Gripping the rim of the tub, she rose from the water like Botticelli’s Venus. Dripping wet and unashamedly bare. Her hands ran over her full breasts, then across her abdomen, her gaze following her own touch. When she lifted her head to look at him, his breath seized in his lungs. It was a siren’s look she gave him. One full of heat and longing and hunger.
“By God,” he said gruffly, aching. “You are beautiful.”
He was in a riot of lust, half mad with the need to spread her beneath him and sate the damned spurring longing that had haunted him far too long.
“You make me feel as if I am.” One slender leg lifted over the edge of the tub. The sinuous invitation in her movements wasn’t lost on him. It seemed drink also roused her passions.
“I can make you feel a great deal more.”
Her nipples were a soft rose hue and luxuriously long. Puckered by the chill of air on wet skin, they begged for the attentions of his mouth and hands. He stroked his tongue deliberately along the curve of his bottom lip, teasing her visually with a physical enactment of the thoughts smoldering in his mind. He could please her to madness. Sex had been one of his trades, and he was damned good at it. If she but gave him the chance, he could ruin her for other men. He was determined to do so.
She did not fail to register his intent or to assess his condition; the color of her blush deepened. Looking at her towel and robe, she seemed to consider whether or not she wanted to retrieve them.
If he could, he would help her with that, if only to restore some semblance of his sanity by covering her. But he couldn’t move. His body was not his own. Every muscle was tense and straining, while his cock hung heavily between his thighs.
“You see how much I want you,” he said hoarsely.
“You have no shame.”
“I would be ashamed if I didn’t desire you. I wouldn’t be a man.”
A faint smile curved her lips as she reached for the folded towel. “Perhaps it was inevitable, then, that I should want you as well. Every other woman is susceptible. It would be curious if I was not.”
His smile came with a host of wicked intentions. “Then the only question remaining is: what will you do about it?”
Jess paused with her fingers curled into the towel. It was madness that she should be standing before Alistair Caulfield without a stitch on. She did not recognize herself or the way she felt—uninhibited, greedy, empty.
What would she do about it? It was a sign of her ignorance that she hadn’t considered doing anything at all. However, faced with the choice of taking action or not, she realized she had power. She hadn’t thought of her fascination with Alistair in terms of balance of power at all. She had, in fact, felt quite powerless.
She released the towel and faced him. “If I wanted you to touch me, where would you begin?”
He set the bottle on the table and sat up with what appeared to be some discomfort. She could imagine why, considering the size of the erection so prominently tenting his smalls and breeches. “Come here,” he said in the rich deep voice she was enamored with. “I’ll show you.”
She wavered, her first steps not quite steady. Whether that was from the wine or her own nervousness, she couldn’t say.
He was impossibly handsome. Irresistibly so. He lounged in the insubstantial chair like a sleek panther, all restrained power and suppressed violence. The muscles of his thighs were clearly defined, reminding her of his strength, which had always captivated her. It was all too easy to imagine how his body would work on a woman’s … on hers …
A shiver moved through her as she remembered the sight of his strong hands gripping the gazebo post.
“I can warm you,” he murmured, reaching out to her. He heated her simply by looking at her. “I fear you are too much for me.”
“In what way?”
With her eyes on the bulge in his breeches, she answered, “In every way.”
“Allow me to prove you wrong.” He beckoned her with a rather arrogant crook of his finger.
She looked at her glass, wishing it wasn’t empty.
“I have the bottle here,” he reminded. “Bring your glass and I will pour what remains of it.”
She decided to forgo the wine but take everything else on offer. It was a conclusion hastily reached, and she rushed to him before her mind could be altered by sobriety or common sense. Knowing he could make her forget everything but him, she hurried to feel his hands on her and lost her footing on the polished wood sole. Her wet heel slipped, sending her into an ignoble tumble.
He stood so swiftly to catch her, she barely registered his movement. All she knew was one moment the sole was racing up to meet her, and the next she was flattened against Alistair’s large, hard body.
“Fortunate that you left the glass behind,” he teased, but his voice was whisky-rough. His blue eyes were dark as sapphires.
For a moment, Jess was at a loss for what to do. Her mind was too engaged by the feel of his body against hers and the smell of his skin.
He sat and draped her over him. “Damned if you haven’t made me weak in the knees.”
At eye level with him, she was riveted by the fierceness of his gaze. For lack of something wittier, she said, “I’ve made you all wet.”