“Won’t the servants come?” she asked, reminding him and herself they were exposed out here.
“Not if they want to keep their hides,” he muttered against her neck, but after a moment pulled back with a sigh. “Although, we probably should consume some of the food Mrs. Crawford packed for us. She becomes peevish when we don’t properly appreciate her efforts.”
He attempted to appear exasperated, but there was too much fondness in his voice for it to be effective.
In deference to the housekeeper, she obediently began to look through one of the baskets as she collected her emotions. That’s when she saw the small poetry book she’d gifted him on their wedding night tucked into one of the baskets.
“You brought it!”
He nodded, very soberly. “I want you to read for me. We never got around to it on our wedding night.” His voice was heavy with meaning, and it made her skin prickle with gooseflesh recalling what had prevented them from reading that evening. “As long as you understand that I will not be responsible for all the shocking things I may be tempted to do to you when you recite to me.”
“I think the threat may have had the opposite effect you desired,” she teased, leaning back on her hands, the little book on her lap.
He pounced then, peppering her with open-mouthed kisses and lurid promises as his hands moved over seemingly every ticklish part of her body.
“On the contrary, it was exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” he told her before jumping up to the table, athletic and graceful while she fought to work air back into her lungs.
“I was promised raspberries,” she chided, making him laugh. Luz moved the cushions so she was propped up on them and turned her head to watch him move. Well, more like admire.
A man that well-made warranted contemplation.
He’d discarded the open waistcoat he’d been wearing and was now in shirtsleeves and light gray trousers that hugged those powerful thighs and muscular backside.
“Hold this for me, sweetheart,” he said as he went to one knee and handed her a small tray he must have produced from one of the baskets. He’d carefully placed the food on one side and a glass of lemonade on the other.
There was something utterly decadent about a big man like this being domestic. Luz was certain Evan did not make a habit of serving others, and yet he didn’t just seem at ease with it; the satisfied little smile on his lips as he took pains to make her comfortable told her he was enjoying it. Once the tray was secured on the ground he lay back down next to her.
He plucked two berries from a small dish and put one against her mouth. Luz’s heart beat wildly as she opened her mouth and he popped it between her lips. She caught his finger between her lips, grinning around the trapped digit.
“If you keep doing things like that,” he said as his eyes darkened with lust, “I’m going to assume you’re trying to seduce me, wife.”
The air went out of her lungs at the word. He’d never used it, and the impact of it left her winded. This man was hers, even if it was just for this day; he was her husband. Mio, she thought of those sparkling amber eyes and that strong, mobile mouth.
Mio. Mio.
Not forever, not like she wanted, but that heartache was for another day.
“Let’s see what we can find,” she said a little too brightly, as she flipped through the pages. Luz laughed when she saw where she’d landed.
“This is a perfect choice,” she said, running a hand over the page, turning the book toward him so he could see. “‘Foolish Men,’” Luz proclaimed primly.
“Hm.” Evan turned his head to the side, squinting at her, like a confused wolf. “Insults don’t make for very effective seduction, a thasgaidh. Unless of course you tell me how reprehensibly large my cock is and how bloody talented I am at making you come for me.” The words made heat bloom in her core. “Those insults are quite welcome.”
“You’re extremely crass.” Luz didn’t even attempt to hide her smile. They both knew she found his filthy overtures infuriatingly arousing. “It’s the title of the poem. It was written by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, who was a Mexican nun,” she informed him, and he regaled her with that lupine smile again.
“That sounds ominous, although I can’t say I blame her for the themes she chose to expound on.”
“This is serious, Evan. She wrote this more than two hundred years ago.” This was usually the type of conversation that resulted in her being chastised for her irreverence and unladylike ways. None were forthcoming from her husband. “She was a rebel, and her opinions on the place of women in society were radical.”
“I assume she was not popular in her time, then,” he commented without any judgment.
“She’s not popular now,” she said pointedly, to which he responded with an arch of his brow.
“I hope that my admiration and...” he said as he gave her an extremely lascivious look “...appreciation for opinionated women hailing from the tropics grants me some mercy.”
“Don’t be so sure, Sinclair,” she shot back, biting back a grin. “Are you ready?”
“Loins have been girded.”
