Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(28)

His breathing grew thready as she drew a fingertip across his collarbone.

He said, “There haven’t been any lovers. Not for some time.”

“How much time?”

“Years.”

“So long?” Emotion rose in her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her heart down in her chest where it belonged. Rhys was one of the most intensely sensual men she’d ever known. She’d sensed it even as a girl. It was what had drawn her to him, at an age where her own feelings of desire were just beginning to stir and coalesce. She’d always been fascinated by him, but more than ever in her fourteenth summer. That year he’d left for Eton an overgrown boy and returned a young man. She couldn’t help but marvel at his wildness, his strength, his body—these same broad shoulders she traced with her touch now. She let one fingertip wander the small valley carved between his shoulder muscle and his biceps.

What a grave injustice, that this beautiful man had been deprived of physical affection and pleasure for years. And yet, she could not deny the swell of possessive joy in her breast, to know he belonged to her in some sense. She would be his first, after so long. He would always remember her. She would make certain of that.

Flattening her hand, she swept a palm down his biceps, flipping her wrist to caress him with the backs of her fingers as she drew her hand back up.

“Meredith …” There was a warning in his voice. But none of the strength coiled in these formidable muscles marshaled to push her away.

“Hush,” she told him, stroking his arm again. “Let me touch you.”

He relaxed against the pillow, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Behind his eyelids, Rhys saw tulips. An endless field of red tulips, and a sky the brilliant blue of aquamarine. He’d spied that field on a pleasant spring morn, marching through Holland with the Fifty-second. A light breeze had teased his hair … almost as sweetly as Meredith now caressed his skin. That field of flowers had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, so beautiful it made even his healed wounds ache. He’d led his men straight through it, unable to resist. Striding through that field of a million cheery blossoms all facing the sun at his back, he’d felt as though they were welcoming him into their midst. He waded knee-deep in that beauty, bathed in it—as if it could wash away all the ugliness of war. This must be what heaven is like, he’d thought. I’d best look and breathe my fill of it now, because God knows I won’t be enjoying it after I die.

It was only when he’d halted and glanced over his shoulder that he’d seen the truth: the piercing glint of a hundred bayonets stabbing the blue sky in unison. His entire battalion of bedraggled soldiers, crunching through the field, mowing down the tulips with boots and bloodied stumps of bare feet. He’d been welcomed by the beauty of God’s creation, and he was leaving grim destruction in his wake. Because he was a violent brute, and that was what he did.

Meredith’s caress … ah, this was pure heaven. And he knew the longer he allowed her to touch him thus, the further he was treading heedless into that pristine, alluring beauty, insensible of the damage he could cause. But he just couldn’t bring himself to stop her. Not yet.

He kept his eyes closed. She swept her hand down his arm again, and arousal rushed through his body, gathering in his groin and clamoring for release.

“Women find a man’s scars irresistible,” she said softly. “We’re drawn to them, to the mystery.” Her fingers found the neat round entry wound where the ball had passed through his shoulder at Vitoria. She traced the puckered scar, pressed a thumb against it. A hint of humor lightened her voice. “Think of … think of ni**les.”

“Ni—” Holy God. “Did you say …”

“Nipples. Aren’t men hopelessly fascinated with a woman’s ni**les?”

He could not have spoken for other men, but suddenly Rhys could think of little else.

She said, “A man’s scars are the same for us. We can’t help but wonder about them, the color and texture. We long to explore them—not just with fingers, but with lips.”

Her lips grazed his shoulder, and his eyes flew open. A loose lock of her upswept hair brushed his chest as she kissed his old, healed wound. He wanted to catch that dark ribbon of hair in his fingertips, but he couldn’t move. If he dared move, she might stop.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

She trailed warm kisses across his chest. Sweet, tender, feminine. And so damned erotic, he was already hard as a gun barrel and primed to fire.

Pressing one last kiss to the scar at his temple, she lifted her head and straightened. He couldn’t have imagined the expression on his face, but the smile on hers told him she liked it.

His gaze slipped downward, and he realized suddenly that she wasn’t even dressed. Her thin linen nightrail slid down one shoulder. The graceful contours of her throat and collarbone drew his eye downward still. He glimpsed her small, firm br**sts swelling beneath the sheer fabric.

He cleared his throat. “Like ni**les.”

Her smile widened. “Yes.”

His fingers went to the ribbon tie at the neckline of her shift. Grasping one frail lace of satin, he undid the simple bow with a slow, agonizing pull. He let his hand fall back so he could enjoy how the fabric gaped to reveal a hint of flesh. Then she rolled her shoulder, and the muslin eased down to bare one breast.