Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(29)

He was stunned immobile for a moment, mesmerized by the milky perfection of her flesh and its rosy pink undertones. And by her lovely pert nipple, just a few shades darker than her skin. As he watched, her areola ruched and puckered, pushing her nipple into a tight bud. A bud that begged to be plucked, sucked.

A soft groan escaped him as he propped himself on one elbow and reached for her with his other hand. Her breast was so small and delicate, and his hand was so big and ugly—if he cupped her, he wouldn’t see anything of her at all. Where would be the good in that? Instead, he brushed the back of one fingertip along the underside of her breast. Her skin shivered and rippled into gooseflesh. He almost drew back, but her soft sigh of pleasure encouraged him. He stroked the place again, then drew a wide circle with his thumb, tracing the outer edge of her areola. She was the softest thing he’d ever touched. His mouth watered.

As if she could sense his need, she leaned forward, meeting him halfway. “Yes,” she urged. “Kiss me.”

He pressed a kiss to the underside of her breast, tasting her skin with a furtive swipe of his tongue. And it was paradise. The stuff of a laudanum dream. Pleasure so acute it verged on madness. The spicy-sweet scent of her skin intoxicated him. Against his mouth she was cool and perfect, like honeydew. And it was a very good thing he was going to marry her, because he knew from just this one first taste that he would never, ever get enough.

“Take down your hair.” He said it in an authoritative voice of command that really wasn’t suited to use with his future wife, but damn—he wanted her to obey, and he wasn’t taking any chances asking nicely.

She did obey, hastily pulling free the ribbon that tied her plait. Her bared breast jounced deliciously as she unbraided her hair, then shook it free. Those thick locks tumbled about her shoulders and chest, dark and sensuous as sable. A curve of creamy skin, capped by her pale, taut nipple, peeked out through the fall of hair draping her breast.

Add in that flirtatious smile and the tender invitation in her eyes, and … Jesus. Fields of tulips, aquamarine skies—they had nothing on Meredith. She was the most beautiful, perfect thing he’d ever seen.

He sat up in bed. “I should go.”

“What? Why?”

“Plenty of work to be done today. I’ll need to hire the ponies, remember.”

“Rhys.” She put a hand to his chest, stopping him dead. “It’s early yet. And you’ve been working so hard all week. Take the morning to rest, enjoy yourself.”

“I enjoy working on the house.”

She gave him a coy look through lowered lashes. “More than you’d enjoy me?”

He scanned the room for his shirt and breeches. There they were, on a hook by the door. Damn it, why had he left them so far away? He nodded toward them. “Could you be so good as to hand me my clothes?”

She laughed. “No, I could not be so good. I’m beginning to wonder why I’m still wearing anything.”

She moved to draw her chemise down the other shoulder. He covered his face with one hand and groaned into it, debating the wisdom of giving her exactly what she deserved and rising from bed naked, crude erection and all. Instead, he pulled the sheet free and wrapped it around his waist as he stood, throwing the tail over his shoulder so it draped like an ancient Greek’s toga. It made him feel stately and philosophical, which helped in the battle to tamp down his lust.

He crossed the room to dress. “This isn’t going to happen. Not this morning. I apologize for taking the liberties I did.”

“Rhys,” she said as he pulled the shirt over his head. “There’s no need for apology. We’re both adults. We want each other. There’s no reason we shouldn’t have some fun. It needn’t mean anything more than that.”

Whipping the sheet from his waist, he reached for his breeches and pulled them on with impatient tugs before turning to face her. “Meredith. You’re my future wife. When I make love to you for the first time, it is damn well going to mean something. To me, at least.”

She blinked, obviously surprised. Dropping her gaze, she threaded her arms back through the sleeves of her shift and tied the ribbon with shaking fingers.

Rhys took a deep breath and composed himself. See? He was such a destructive brute. He’d barely touched her, and he was hurting her already.

“I’m sorry. I’m not angry.” He grabbed his boots and sat on the opposite edge of the bed. “I … I’m just not especially good with words. I want to explain this, but it may not come out right. Will you let me try?”

She shrugged her acquiescence.

He began cramming his right foot into its boot. “I’ve torn apart a lot of things in my life. Too many. I’ve been in the business of death for years now, and there’s only one thing I’ve never successfully managed to destroy. You’re looking at it.” He began on the left boot, working more slowly. His stiff knee made it tricky. “This body has survived blows, musket balls, bayonets, grenades, and whatever else God and Napoleon could find to hurl at it. I’m simply fated to live. There’s no other explanation. And now that I’ve come to terms with that, I’m done tearing things apart.”

He plunked his booted feet on the floor and turned to face her. “I want to build something now. Can you understand? Every day for years, I’ve woken up thinking, this is the day I die, or kill trying. Now I wake up and think, this is the day I start mixing the cob. I’m working myself to bones out there on the moor, sweating and piling rocks and digging in the dirt. Each morning I’m greeted by new aches and pains, heaped atop a lifetime of injuries. But it’s all worth it. I’m going to build that house with my own hands, from the foundation to the roof. I’m going to do it for us, and I’m going to do it right, so it lasts forever. Can’t go raising walls on a shaky foundation. Can’t go slapping thatch over rafters so thin, they’ll topple with the first winter storm. Do you know?”