Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(62)

Christopher shook his head as she leaned forward to kiss him. “Don’t start that, or we’ll never get this done.” Putting a board in place, he looked at her expectantly. “Start hammering.”

They were in the hayloft, where she had taken him to help repair a nest box that she had constructed herself. Christopher watched, entertained, while Beatrix sank a neat row of nails into the end of the board. He had never expected that a woman’s proficiency with tools would be so charming. And he couldn’t help but enjoy the way her breeches tightened over her bottom every time she leaned over.

With an effort, he tried to discipline his body, push back the urgent rise of desire, as he’d had to do so often lately. Beatrix offered more temptation than he could bear. Whenever he kissed her, she responded with an innocent sensuality that drove him to the limits of his self-control.

Before he had been called to war, Christopher had never had any difficulty in finding lovers. Sex had been a casual pleasure, something he had enjoyed without guilt or inhibitions. But after prolonged abstinence, he was concerned about the first time he made love to Beatrix. He did not want to hurt or frighten her.

Self-control of any kind was still a struggle.

That was readily apparent on occasions such as the night when one of the twins had accidently stumbled over Beatrix’s cat Lucky, who had let out the particular earsplitting screech of an irritated feline. And then both the twins started squalling, while Catherine had rushed to soothe them.

Christopher had nearly jumped out of his skin. The uproar had sent a shock through him, leaving him tense and trembling, and he had lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut as he was transported in an instant to a battlefield beneath an exploding sky. A few deep breaths, and then he had become aware of Beatrix sitting beside him. She didn’t question him, only stayed quiet and near.

And then Albert had come and put his chin on his knee, regarding him with somber brown eyes.

“He understands,” Beatrix had said softly.

Christopher reached out to pet the rough head, and Albert nuzzled into his hand, a tongue curling against his wrist. Yes, Albert understood. He had suffered beneath the same rain of shells and cannonfire, knew the feeling of a bullet tearing through his flesh. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, old fellow?” Christopher had murmured.

His thoughts were wrenched back to the present as Beatrix finished her task, set the hammer aside, and dusted her hands together. “There,” she said in satisfaction. “All ready for the next occupant.”

She crawled over to where Christopher was half reclining, and stretched out beside him like a cat. His lashes half lowered as he surveyed her. His senses wanted to draw her in, to indulge in the feel of her soft skin, the supple firmness of her beneath him. But he resisted as she tried to pull him closer.

“Your family will suspect we’ve been doing something other than woodworking,” he said. “You’ll be covered with hay.”

“I’m always covered with hay.”

Her slightly crooked grin and lively blue eyes undid him. Relenting, he lowered to her, his mouth covering hers in a warm, lightly probing kiss. Her arms went around his neck. He explored her slowly, taking his time, playing with her until he felt the shy stroke of her tongue against his. The sensation went down to his groin, fueling a fresh wave of erotic heat.

She cradled him, her h*ps adjusting instinctively beneath his. He couldn’t stop himself from pushing against the feminine softness, a pulse of movement that beguiled them both. Murmuring his name, Beatrix let her head fall back on his arm, her throat exposed to the damp caress of his lips. He found sensitive places with his tongue, using the tip of it when he felt her squirm. His hand went to one of her br**sts, cupping the natural shape of her through the shirt and chemise, rubbing the tight peak with a warm circling of his palm. Small moans rose in her throat, abbreviated purrs of pleasure.

She was so exquisite, writhing and arching beneath him, that Christopher felt himself begin to drown in lust, his body taking over and his mind going hazy. It would be so easy to open her clothes, free his tortured flesh . . . let himself enter her, and find wholesale relief—

He groaned and rolled to his back, but she stayed with him, clinging.

“Make love to me,” she said breathlessly. “Here. Now. Please, Christopher—”

“No.” Managing to pry her away, he sat up. “Not in a hayloft, with someone likely to come into the barn at any moment.”

“I don’t care.” Beatrix dove her hot face against his chest. “I don’t care,” she repeated feverishly.

“I care. You deserve something far better than a tumble in the hay. And so do I, after more than two years of going without.”

Beatrix looked up at him, her eyes widening. “Truly? You’ve been chaste for that long?”

Christopher gave her a sardonic glance. “ ‘Chaste’ implies a purity of thought that I assure you does not apply. But I have been celibate.”

Crawling behind him, Beatrix began to brush at the straw clinging to his back. “There were no opportunities to be with a woman?”

“There were.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Christopher twisted to glance at her over his shoulder. “Are you really asking for the details?”

“Yes.”

“Beatrix, do you know what happens to girls who ask such naughty questions?”