Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(56)

Cleo’s eyes opened slowly, and she blinked, trying to shake free her groggy thoughts. The cloudy vestiges of a dream pulled on her consciousness like cobwebs clinging to the skin.

She lifted her head, her unfocused gaze staring into a room of flickering shadows and dying light. For a long moment she could recall none of it. Not what had happened. Not where she was.

Her gaze landed on a large window dominating one stone wall. The drapes were cracked, but no light slipped inside, so she knew it was still dead night. Stillness surrounded her, draping the room in its hush. And yet she knew something had woken her.

And then she saw Logan and it all came back in a burst, in an instant of aching awareness.

He bent before the hearth, adding logs into the dwindling fire. He looked like some mythical man, a creature not of earth. Firelight licked over him, gilding his magnificent form, sliding over the ripple of muscle and sinew as he worked. Her palms tingled, itched to follow the trail of firelight over him.

Everything came back to her. Including Marguerite’s lessons. Her breasts tightened beneath her gown and an ache pooled low in her belly.

Determined to gain his notice, she readjusted on the bed in a calculated pose, flinging the covers off her and making certain her nightgown rode higher . . . exposing her legs up to her thighs. Marguerite had convinced her that there were other things to do aside of actual consummation. Pleasurable things. Cleo wanted that. She wanted to experience it for herself . . . and she wanted to please him, too.

Marguerite’s voice rolled through her. The sight of bare skin always puts a man in an amorous mood.

She only hoped the room’s dim lighting hid the flush to her cheeks, and that he wasn’t alerted to the fact that she was awake.

At least until she wanted him to be.

Closing her eyes, she arranged herself in what she hoped was an artless pose. And waited.

She heard his approach. The steady fall of his footsteps. Then nothing. He stopped. Was he looking down at her? She struggled to control her breathing, keep it even and deep as though she were believably asleep.

Then the bed dipped with his weight. He scooted closer but she felt nothing. No brush of him against her. She was sprawled in such a way that, she knew, he had to take special care not to touch her. When positioning herself, she’d assumed he’d want to reclaim his spot in the middle of the bed. The spot she now occupied.

She waited several moments, listening, feeling the air. There was an initial shift of the covers and adjustment of his body as he settled down into bed again, and then all fell still. Not the faintest movement. No rustling sheets. She couldn’t even hear the fall of his breathing.

She waited several minutes, but the worry that he’d perhaps fallen asleep again prompted her to crack open an eye.

He was beside her, on his back, eyes closed. Sleeping already? Disappointment shot through her yet again, but with it she felt a jolt of determination. He couldn’t be sleeping too deeply yet. And what if he was? She knew what would wake him. If Marguerite was to be believed, she knew precisely what might rouse him.





Chapter Twenty-three

He felt her move upon the bed and his every muscle tightened in near pain.

It had been hard enough to return from stirring the fire and find her sprawled so delectably across the bed, her bare limbs curled enticingly, inviting him to touch, caress. His palms sweat just thinking about it. The only thing for him to do was lie down and close his eyes and try to forget the image. Try to pretend a mere inch didn’t separate them. That he could stretch out an arm and touch the satiny skin of her thighs. He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to rid himself of the image. It did nothing, however, to rid him of the memory, the well-remembered sensation of her skin beneath his hands.

Now she was moving. He heard the rustle of fabric, felt the nudge of her body against him. Was she mindlessly moving in her sleep? Was she one of those who tossed and turned? He envisioned countless torturous nights ahead where she rubbed up against him. How long was he to keep his hands to himself in such a scenario?

Her head found his chest. She snuggled against him like he was a pillow to be cuddled. He ground his teeth, but didn’t move as she slid one delicious leg around him. He hardened to aching attention at the feel of her leg draped over him. Skin to skin. Only the merest shift of their bodies, and he’d have her against that part of him that most longed to join with her.

He could imagine her horror if she woke to find herself nuzzling against him in such a manner. It was a tempting notion. Perhaps he should wake her. That would certainly put an end to their proximity—and stop this blissful torment.

But the torment didn’t stop. It continued in full assault. Her hand landed on his stomach, dropped there, fingers lightly curled, the tips resting, light as a moth on his quivering flesh. He tensed. Ceased to breathe. Her fingers flattened and spread wide at his navel, burning him like a brand. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said it was an experienced move. Deliberate. An action intended to seduce a man. Absolutely not something Cleo would do.

Then all sane thinking fled as that hand crept down and found him. Everything he thought about her, about this moment, about them, vanished in an instant.

There was only sensation. Only need.

He gasped and arched on the bed as her small fingers wrapped around him. The sensation of her fingers, soft and gentle, exerting just the barest pressure . . . it was bliss. The exquisite feeling only intensified as she began moving her hand, stroking him, working her hand over him in deft strokes.