The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(84)

Poppy had been dubious, but now it almost made sense. She felt so different on the inside that it was impossible to believe she might be physically unchanged. Her breasts felt heavy, and yes, bigger. Her nipples had ruched into tight peaks, much like when the temperature dropped, and when his hand had skimmed across the material of her bodice, not even touching her skin, it had sent jolts of electricity to her very core.

That had not happened the last time she’d been cold.

She felt hungry . . . hungry at her core. She wanted to wrap her legs around him and pull him close. She wanted to feel that hardness pressed against her. She needed contact. She needed pressure.

She needed him.

As if he’d read her mind, his hands dipped past her bottom to the tops of her thighs, and he hoisted her up, only to then tumble her down upon the bed. He was above her in under a second, moving like a cat, predatory and sleek.

His eyes devoured her.

“Poppy,” he groaned, and her heart soared at the sound of her name on his lips. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d said it before; it felt different now, as if the two simple syllables had become part of the very structure of his kisses.

The weight of him pressed her into the mattress, and even though he was the one who had her pinned, she felt powerful. It was thrilling to think that she had brought him to this point. That she was the reason this unflappable man was nearly out of control.

And that power . . . it did something to her. It made her bold. It made her hungry.

It made her crave his touch, his strength.

She wanted to be as audacious as he was, to reach out and take what she wanted. But she didn’t know—couldn’t have known—where to start.

She wanted to learn.

She brought her eyes to his. “I want to touch you.”

“Do it,” he commanded.

He’d long since disposed of his cravat, and so she reached out and touched the warm skin of his neck, trailing her fingers along the tightly corded muscles that ran down to his shoulder.

He shuddered.

“Do you like that?” she whispered.

He moaned. “So much.”

She caught her lip between her teeth, fascinated by his reaction. When her fingers dipped under the edge of his shirt, his body jerked. She started to pull away, but his hand immediately came to cover hers.

Their eyes met. Don’t go , his seemed say.

Slowly, he lifted his hand, and she resumed her lazy exploration, drawing circles and scribbles on his skin. She could have done this all night, might even have tried to, but he let out a hoarse groan and pulled himself back.

He sat upright, straddling her as he yanked his shirt up and over his head.

Poppy stopped breathing.

He was beautiful.

He had the body of a man who used it, a man who worked, and worked hard. His muscles were exquisitely sculpted under his skin, and she could not help but wonder what movement had built each one.

“What are you thinking?” he whispered.

She looked up, only then realizing that she’d been staring at him.

“I was wondering how you got this .” She laid her hand over his breast, marveling over the way the hard curve of his muscle filled her palm.

He sucked in his breath. “Jesus, Poppy.”

“What sort of movement builds each muscle?” She moved her hand to his upper arm. It flexed beneath her fingers, the bulge of it sliding and changing shape under his skin.

Their eyes met again. Keep going , his seemed to say.

She drew lightly downward, over his elbow to the softer skin of his inner arm. “How does one get this sort of muscle?” she wondered, sliding around to the muscle just below his elbow. “Lifting a crate?”

“Gripping the wheel.”

She looked up. He’d sounded breathless.

She’d made him sound that way. Again, she felt power.

She was power.

“Which do you use when lifting a crate?”

“My back,” he murmured. “And my legs.” He brought his hand to her upper arm, his long fingers nearly encircling it. “And this.”

She looked down, mesmerized by the contrast between his skin and hers. He’d spent hours in the sun, and his skin had been burnished to a golden tan. The texture too told of time spent out of doors—in the wind, in the water. It was rough, and calloused. And beautiful.

“I like your hands,” she said abruptly, taking one between both of hers.

“My hands?” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“They’re perfect,” she said. “Large and square.”

“Square?” He sounded amused, but in the best possible way.

“And capable .” She brought his hand to her chest, placed it over her heart. “They make me feel safe.”

He drew a shaky breath, and his touch seemed to grow heavier on her skin. His palm rotated, inching down her torso until his hand lay over her breast. He squeezed gently, and she moaned with surprised pleasure.

His eyes caught hers. “Are you asking me to stop?”

No .

“Not yet,” she whispered.

She’d loosened her dress earlier, trying to make herself more comfortable, and now, when he curled his finger under the edge of the bodice, the fabric slid easily over her shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.