Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(32)

“Stop,” he said.

She stopped, taken aback.

He cursed his thoughtlessness again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you. But have a care for your hem and slippers.”

He nodded at the ground.

She’d crossed from the paved half of the smithy and trod straight onto the cinders, dragging her damp flounce through the packed soot. That sort of soil was near impossible to clean. Anyone who saw it would know where she’d been.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m cold. I want to be nearer the fire. And you.”

“Then put your hands on my shoulders.” When she complied, he slid a forearm under her hips and lifted, boosting her to sit on the anvil. He kept his hand clenched and out of the way, to keep from mussing her frock.

But once he had here there, sitting sweetly on his anvil . . .

By God, he wanted to muss her all over.

Five minutes ago, he would have sworn there was no sight on earth more enticing than Miss Diana Highwood in her china-blue frock.

But he was wrong.

There was a sight more enticing. It was Miss Diana Highwood in her china-blue frock, damp with rain.

The cloak had protected her from the worst of it, but enough of the weather had seeped through that her bodice might as well have been a coat of paint. Her ni**les were hard and perfectly outlined.

Her legs dangled above the cinder floor. He caught a glimpse of her white-clad ankles. No silk stockings today, just sensible wool. He still found them arousing as hell.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, then showed her his blackened hands. “Sit here by the forge. I’ll go wash up, find a fresh shirt, build a fire in the cottage. Then I can warm you properly.”

She reached for him. “No, stay. Stay with me.”

“If you like.”

Frowning, he studied her, trying to decide whether her shivering was due to the damp weather or a fragile emotional state. Either way, he didn’t like feeling unable to help her.

He couldn’t warm her with his hands. But hands weren’t the only parts he had.

“Your fingers must be freezing,” he said, glancing down at her balled fists.

She nodded.

She wore those knitted handwarmers that seemed popular with all the ladies this spring. Fingerless gloves, he’d heard them called. In weather like this, “fingerless” struck him as tantamount to “useless,” but he didn’t pretend to understand ladies’ fashions.

He untied his leather apron and cast it aside. Then he jerked his homespun shirt free of his waistband and lifted it in invitation. “Put them here.”

She pressed her chilled hands flat to his torso. Their coolness gave him a jolt.

“Goodness,” she said. “You’re like a furnace.”

Love, you have no idea.

To be sure, her hands were cold. But her cold fingertips had less chance of dampening his lust than ten snowflakes falling on a bonfire.

His whole body was aflame with desire for her. Had been since long before she’d burst through the door. All he’d been able to think of since last night was her naked body under his. Her sweet touch against his bared skin.

Bending his head, he kissed the pink back to her lips, then her cheeks. He nuzzled the frosty snub of her nose. Licked a stray raindrop from her brow.

“That’s better,” she said.

“I’m just getting started.” He pressed a kiss to her neck. “But you had something to talk about?”

“It can wait.”

“Good.” He trailed kisses lower. “Good.”

Her fingers slid around his rib cage, spreading over the planes of his back, drawing him close. Instinctively, he moved to reciprocate and embrace her, too—but he remembered himself just in time to keep from smearing her frock with soot. Instead, he let his hands drop, and he gripped either end of the anvil.

Her neckline thwarted him. When damp, the muslin had no give. So he dropped his head lower, nuzzling her br**sts through her bodice.

She sighed and moved against him, seeking more contact.

He knew she wanted more. Needed more. And he knew how to give it to her, too. He just wasn’t sure she was ready to receive it.

No way to find out but to try.

He sank to his knees, ducked his head, and burrowed under her skirts.

She went completely still. Not a muscle moved, but he could hear her breathing. Her breath came from a low place, deep in her belly. Husky and yearning.

She didn’t tell him to stop.

He nibbled his way up the stocking-clad slope of her calf and knee, nosing his way through the tunnel of petticoats. When he reached her ribbon garter, he knew paradise was close. He laid his tongue to the bare silk of her inner thigh, then swept boldly upward. As he moved higher, his broad shoulders pushed her legs apart.

Her thigh gave a sweet quiver against his mouth.

He found her center, nestled close, and parted her with his tongue.

She sucked in her breath.

He paused, giving her time to adjust or object if she wished—and he drew a deep inhalation of his own. He breathed the scents of spring rain, and muslin pressed with a hot iron, and her intoxicating feminine essence. So pure, so sensual. It made him wild.

He lapped at her, thirsty for more.

It wasn’t long before she surrendered to the pleasure, relaxing into his kiss. He explored gently, tenderly, learning what pleased her and what didn’t. He would have loved to bring her to climax this way. But when she tugged at his shoulders in a silent plea for him to rise, he couldn’t find any strength to object.