Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(69)

“Kiss me.”

She pressed her mouth to his, and there was silence for a long time afterward. His hands slipped beneath the shirt, tormenting gently until she pressed herself against him. Her insides felt molten, and she weakened all over, wanting him.

“Upstairs,” he said against her lips, and picked her up, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.

Beatrix blanched as they approached the door. “You can’t take me upstairs like this.”

“Why not?”

“I’m only wearing your shirt.”

“That doesn’t matter. Turn the doorknob.”

“What if one of the servants should see?”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Now you’re worried about propriety? Open the damned door, Beatrix.”

She complied and kept her eyes tightly closed as he carried her upstairs. If any of the servants saw them, no one said a word.

After bringing Beatrix to his room, Christopher sent for cans of hot water and a hip bath, and a bottle of champagne. And he insisted on washing her, despite her cringing and protesting.

“I can’t just sit here,” she protested, straddling the metal tub and lowering herself carefully, “and let you do something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.”

Christopher went to the dresser, where a silver tray bearing champagne and two fluted crystal glasses had been set. He poured a glass for her, and brought it to Beatrix. “This will keep you occupied.”

Taking a sip of the cool, bubbly vintage, Beatrix leaned back to look at him. “I’ve never had champagne in the afternoon,” she said. “And certainly never while bathing. You won’t let me drown, will you?”

“You can’t drown in a hip bath, love.” Christopher knelt beside the tub, bare-chested and sleek. “And no, I won’t let anything happen to you. I have plans for you.” He applied soap to a sponge, and more to his hands, and began to bathe her.

She hadn’t been washed by anyone since she had been a young child. It gave her a curious sense of safety, of being nurtured. Leaning back, she idly touched one of his forearms, trailing her fingertips through a froth of soap. The sponge drew over her slowly, her shoulders and br**sts, her legs and the creases behind her knees. He began to cleanse her more intimately, and all sense of safety vanished as she felt his fingers slipping inside her. She gasped and floundered a little, reaching for his wrist.

“Don’t drop the glass,” Christopher murmured, his hand still between her thighs.

Beatrix nearly choked on her next swallow of champagne. “That’s wicked,” she said, her eyes half closing as his exploring finger found a sensitive place deep inside her.

“Drink your champagne,” he said gently.

Another head-spinning sip, while his invading touch moved in subtle swirls. Beatrix lost her breath. “I can’t swallow when you do that,” she said helplessly, her hand gripping the glass.

His gaze was caressing. “Share it with me.”

With effort, she guided the glass to his lips and gave him a swallow, while he continued to stroke and tease her beneath the water. His mouth came to hers, the kiss carrying the crisp, sweet flavor of champagne. His tongue played in ways that made her heart thunder.

“Now drink the rest,” he whispered. She gave him a dazed look, her h*ps beginning to rise and fall of their own volition, churning the hot soap-clouded water. She was so hot, inside and out, her body aching for the pleasure he withheld. “Finish,” he prompted.

One last convulsive gulp, and then the glass was removed from her nerveless grip and set aside.

Christopher kissed her again, his free arm sliding beneath her neck.

Gripping his bare shoulder, Beatrix tried to bite back a moan. “Please. Christopher, I need more, I need—”

“Patience,” he whispered. “I know what you need.”

A frustrated gasp escaped her as his touch withdrew, and he helped her from the bath. She was so enervated that she could barely stand, her knees threatening to fold. He dried her efficiently, and kept a supportive arm behind her back as he led her to the bed.

He stretched out beside her, cradled her in his arms, and began to kiss and caress her. Beatrix writhed like a cat, trying to absorb the lessons he was intent on teaching her. A new language of skin and hands and lips, more primal than words . . . every touch promise and provocation.

“Don’t struggle for it,” he whispered, his hand stealing between her straining thighs once more. “Let me give it to you . . .” His hand cupped her and pressed. His fingers entered, teased, played. But he withheld what she wanted, murmuring for her to relax, give in, let go. There was both fear and relief in giving it to him, yielding every part of herself without reserve. But she did. She let her head fall back on his arm, her body turning pliant, legs spreading. Instantly the cl**ax welled, her flesh contracting, all awareness distilled to that secret inner place he stroked.

When Beatrix finally recovered, emerging from the opulent haze, she saw a glow of concern in his eyes. He was looking at her na**d side, his hand passing lightly over the large purple bruise from her fall earlier in the day.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I nearly always have something bruised or scratched.”

The information didn’t seem to reassure him. His mouth twisted, and he shook his head. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”