Behind the Courtesan(28)

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By the time the fire roared and heat blasted from the hearth, Blake had stripped all of his clothes off and pulled on the red robe he’d accidentally left in his room. This room. The one where she now slept.

The tinkle of Sophie’s giggle reached his ears and he turned to see what she laughed at. In his fuzzy, ale-filled mind, he’d almost forgotten her presence. Almost. Except lately he couldn’t forget she was there. Everywhere. In his kitchen, in his dining room, in his bed—since he’d given her his room—and in his life. Her laugh, her smile, her scent—she was everywhere. Right now, she stood before the fire, her dress in the air, and she laughed. Not the practiced, sophisticated laugh of a courtesan. She laughed like Sophie. Like she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Are you stuck or trying to tempt me with your petticoats?”

Sophie’s giggles became muffled as she tried again to lift the wet skirts over her head with another tug.

“Would you like me to help you?” he asked, his fingers itching to undress her.

“Please.”

She stopped struggling and just stood there. He stepped closed, willed his hands to remember he only helped. They were friends and that was it.

Friends.

He did not want to ruin anything between them by letting his prick do the thinking.

But think it did. So much of his blood traveled south that he almost felt lightheaded.

Once he’d removed the heavy gown, she stood in a shift, no corset, and her petticoats. The shift was made of the palest, most translucent fabric he’d ever seen. He didn’t even have a word for it beyond delicate. Perhaps fragile. Just like her.

He turned away as she peeked from beneath long dark lashes. If she saw the longing in his eyes he would frighten her. He should leave her be, but hers was the only fire already lit. His small temporary room would take some time to warm up and with the twinge in his ribs and the ache in his leg, he couldn’t take the cold. At least that’s the story he told himself. He hadn’t been in a weakened state for at least two days. But she didn’t know that. He enjoyed the way she fussed when she thought he did too much. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when someone had fussed over him. Not even his mother had shown him much love before throwing him into the arms of a drunkard.

Sophie needed to fuss as much as he needed to see her do it. It kept her mind off darker matters. She could deny her worries until it snowed in hell, but she had her fair share and when she thought no one looked, she brooded. So he made her think he was still too injured to work.

He stepped wrong with his aching leg while hanging her dress on a peg on the back of the door and nearly faltered. He must have drunk more than he thought. Before he’d completed the thought, Sophie was under his shoulder, her small body supporting his large one and damn him if he didn’t smile like an idiot.

“I’m all right,” he assured her.

“You are not. Why did you not tell me your leg pains you also?”

Blame the ale, blame the lack of blood to his brain or the cold, but before he knew what happened, his mouth opened and he said, “It’s not my leg that pains me.” But it wasn’t only the words he’d stupidly said, it was the way he said them that made Sophie pause, one hand at his back and the other on his chest, only the red robe’s lapel between his skin and hers.

“Oh?” she hesitated, her gaze on the floor. “Is it your ribs?”

The very stupidest thing he could do was to admit the real reason for his current state. And if she didn’t get her hands off his person in the next five seconds, words wouldn’t be needed at all. “Yes.”

“Well, you need to sit down and get warm. Shivering will hardly do you any good.”

He let her lead him to the chair in front of the fire, his conscience not nearly as heavy as his growing erection.

“Close your eyes,” she said, her hands on the ties of her petticoats.

Gladly, he thought as he dipped his head and closed his eyes. It would be the end of his straining control if he were to see any more skin than she already showed. He heard the rustle and slap of fabric and bit down on his bottom lip. Hard.

“Damnation,” she swore.

Damnation indeed. Blake sighed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. No. Damn these cold fingers.”

“Do you need help?” He should have bitten his tongue off.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He gave her a moment and when her litany of curses continued, he opened his eyes and lifted his head. Big mistake. Huge mistake.

Sophie stood before the fire, her back to the warming flames, her fingers at the tiny buttons that ran from the valley of her breasts almost to where he imagined her navel. It would have been marginally bearable but for the fact that the wet fabric was so sheer that he could see the tiny mole to the left of one dusky nipple.

She must have felt his stare. When she looked up, her blue eyes deepened and her hands moved to cover her chest. This just presented more problems. Only one of a good many. Now she cupped her breasts—her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, her skin glistened. She looked every part the siren.

“I think you do require assistance.”

As she shook her head, wet hair slid over her bare shoulders and left tiny droplets on her pale skin. “I don’t. You need to sit...and...and...close your eyes.”

If there had been any strength behind the command he would have sat back down and tore his gaze from her form. But there wasn’t. Thank God.

He stepped toward her, waited for her to say no, to put a stop to what they both knew was the inevitable next step. Because he laid some claim to manners still, he gave her one more chance. “Will you let me help you?”

“It’s not a good idea,” she whispered.

“Please?” He took another step. Here he could breathe her in. Fresh rain and the soap she used to wash her hair heightened his awareness. Not that it needed it. It was almost as if the world outside this room ceased to exist the moment he’d closed the door. “Sophie?”

Slowly, so slowly that he nearly swallowed his tongue, her hands dropped to her sides, her chin rose and she nodded.

“You have to be sure,” he said as he took that final step.

“I’m sure.”





Chapter Fifteen



Truth be told, Sophie shivered less from the cold than the anticipation. It ran from her neck, down her spine, into her legs, so she felt it clear to her feet. She had to resist the urge to curl her toes against the smooth timber boards.

Right here, right now, she wanted Blake and no other man would do. She’d had to endure his close proximity for a week, touch his skin to check his wounds, tolerate his eyes on her every move. The flex and shift of his muscles fascinated her and she wanted to know how his body would react when he leaned over her, pressed her into the mattress and drove her to oblivion.

It was a bad idea. He didn’t even like her. But none of that mattered when he placed both of his huge warm hands against her flushed cheeks, tipped her head back and touched his lips to hers. At first his kiss was gentle, protective, caring; he didn’t crowd or push her.

She sighed again and leaned into him. He treated her with such reverence and she wanted to let him, but when she touched her tongue to his, the fire grew in her belly to a raging inferno and she did something no courtesan should ever do. She lost control.

Wrapping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers into his hair she pressed her body to his.

Blake tasted of brandy and rain and all things good, but kissing wasn’t enough. She’d dreamed of being in his arms ever since the morning they’d woken on the road. As much as she’d been shocked and then angry, she couldn’t help but think how far it could have gone if their angry words hadn’t ruined everything. The possibilities had kept her up night after night until she’d had to pace in the cold to dampen her desires.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” she finally admitted.

His hands paused on the curve of her lower back. “How many?”

She let go of him and stepped back a half pace. She took the ends of the robe’s tie in her fingers and gave them a pull until the knot unraveled. “I lost count.”

“That many?” Blake’s eyes glazed over and his intent stare shifted from her mouth to her hands. The vagueness in his question said she had his full attention.

“Hmm. Have you thought about it?” She slid the material over an inch, teasing, taunting, tempting.

“That and more.”

“How did it go in your dreams?”

“I think even you are a little too innocent to hear about my dreams, Sophie.”

She laughed. “Why, Blake, I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He pushed her hands aside. “And I do believe the time for speaking has come and gone.”