“’Night, Phelps.” Nash picked up the crystal glass and swirled the cognac around, watching the fire through it. The rich aroma of the cognac teased his senses, reminding him of the way her kisses had tasted. Madeira and Maddy, a headier combination by far than the finest French cognac.
Come in with me.
He glanced at the bedclothes, turned back so invitingly on his bed. Damn it all, why should he wait?
She’d invited him in.
It wasn’t gentlemanly to turn down a lady’s invitation.
And Nash was a gentleman to his fingertips. A gentleman under perfect control. Making a rational, logical, polite decision not to disappoint a lady.
He put down the brandy glass and let himself quietly out into the dark corridor.
He eased open her door in case she was already asleep, but she was kneeling by the fire in her night rail, her head bent over, vigorously brushing her hair.
Her spine formed a graceful arch. The thin, worn fabric of the nightgown pulled tight over the sweet curve of her hips and bottom. The undersides of her small pink toes peeked from under her buttocks. Her body moved gently with each movement of the brush, her breasts swaying gently as, like a living thing, her hair lifted and crackled with each stroke, gleaming in the firelight.
His mouth dried. His body hardened in a rush of hot blood. God, but she was beautiful. His bride-to-be.
He must have made a noise, for she looked up. And waited for him to speak.
His throat was tight, too tight to speak.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Are you sure you want me to stay with you tonight?” he croaked.
She set down the brush and gave him a slow smile. “Of course I’m sure.” She rose to her feet in one graceful movement, running her fingers through her hair to tame its wildness. It crackled and clung to her skin. He knew just how it felt.
“Don’t.” His voice sounded hoarse.
A pucker formed between her brows. “Don’t what?” she murmured, moving toward him. Her hair was damp, curling in tendrils around her neck and ears.
She placed her hands on his chest—he wondered if she could feel the pounding of his heart—and raised her face for his kiss. The fragrance of new-washed hair and warm, clean woman enveloped him. His body throbbed, hard and wanting. Demanding.
“You smell so good,” muttered the man of words. But he could barely string two thoughts together, let alone a sentence.
With Maddy like this, so warm and close and beautiful and welcoming, his brain was empty of all except desire. Thick, pulsing desire, hot and heavy, urging him to just toss her on the bed and take her, possess her, bury himself deep. Mindless, savage, desire.
He fought for every shred of control. Tonight, since his ability to resist her had proven so weak, he was going to make it good for her, to take her slowly, gently. Even if it killed him.
He trailed his fingers through the thick silky mass. “Don’t ever cut this.”
“I won’t.” Her lashes lowered demurely and she brushed her body lightly against him, moving in a slow tantalizing dance. Innocent eroticism, he told himself. Unbearably delicate friction.
His pulse pounded through his body, his body racked with agony, craving possession, demanding release. He groaned and she smiled a small, feminine smile.
“Shall we move to the bed?” she murmured.
Without a word, he swung her into his arms and in two long strides reached the bed. But he couldn’t seem to let her go. Her arms twined around his neck and she pressed kisses on his jaw, his neck, the opening of his dressing gown.
Nash closed his eyes, savagely leashing his rampant desire into something resembling control. Like a tiger held by a ribbon. At this rate, he was going to fall on her and ravish her like a mindless beast. He forced himself to set her gently on the bed and stood back, breathing heavily.
She leaned back on her elbows and regarded him thoughtfully, her glorious hair spread out in a wild, beautiful mass, her thin cotton night rail rucked up, revealing the pale, sweet slenderness of her thighs. Parted slightly in unknowing invitation.
He forced his eyes away from the velvet shadow between her thighs and gave her a searching look. “Are you sure you’re not too sore from . . . the other night?”
Again, that small, female smile. Mona Lisa in a worn cotton nightgown. “I ache,” she told him, and his heart sank. It was as he thought. It was too soon.
