He kissed her back, sweetly, tenderly. She was having none of that.
She bit his lip, hard. Swept her tongue inside when his mouth parted in surprise. Forced him to taste her, to feel her desperation, her passion.
His hands tightened on her hips, but not to set her down. He pulled her closer.
“Don’t go back there,” he whispered. “Stay here. With me.”
Susan didn’t want to think about Moonseed Manor, about the dead Runner, about the giant’s threats. She pressed closer to Mr. Bothwick’s warm body. She felt his hard length trapped between them and remembered what it looked like, swollen with desire. She wished for the chance to touch him as he’d touched her. She’d dreamt of closing her hand around him, stroking him, watching his face contort with pleasure. This time, perhaps they could bring release to each other.
He lifted her in his arms. She let him. Until he passed the staircase.
“Where are we going?” she asked against the side of his neck.
“Receiving room?” he guessed.
“No.” She shook her head, looking him in the eyes. “Bedchamber.”
He stopped, hesitated. His gaze sparked with the war between obeying what she said now, and complying with what she’d told him only last night.
“Are you certain?” he asked softly.
She kissed him, thrusting her breasts against his chest. “Bedchamber.”
He gave no argument.
With his mouth on hers and his arms wrapped tight around her, he turned and somehow made it up the stairs. The room he entered was awash in blues and greens. Colors of the sea. How very like him. The presence of pine furniture only augmented the feel of the ocean, by bringing in touches of brown and beige the color of sand, both wet and dry.
He laid her in the center of a large, night-blue bed and cupped her face to kiss her. His were not the soft hands of an idletonlordling with nothing more taxing to do than play deuces and bet on ponies. His were the rough hands of a man who toiled at hard labor, who’d done so recently, and with pleasure. He was not the Society gentleman she’d been waiting for, but she couldn’t make herself care. For now, she was his. And would make him hers. If only for this moment.
She licked at his lips. “Touch me.”
At last, he slid one of his palms from her cheek to her neck, to her collarbone, to her breast. He cupped her as best he could through all the layers separating them, pinched the budding nipple. The sensation was heavenly... but it wasn’t enough. She arched into him, lifting her back from the mattress.
“Unbutton me.”
He paused. “Miss Stanton...”
“I believe I’m Susan, at this point,” she corrected, unsure whether she felt like laughing or crying. She kissed him so he wouldn’t detect either emotion. She needed to feel real, to feelalive. “Unbutton me.”
He paused only for a second. “Turn around.”
She tried to kiss him. He gripped her shoulders, turning her himself. Yes. That was what she wanted. She didn’t wish to think. She only wished to feel. He kissed along her neck as his fingers traced her spine. Perfect.
After he made deft work of the buttons, the ties, the hooks-and-eyes, and everything else that had caged her in layer upon layer of cotton, he seemed to hesitate.
She did not.
She shrugged her gown off of her shoulders, wriggled it over her hips, kicked the heavy mass off the bed. The knife in her pocket thunked when it hit the floor. Her stays were the next to go—bloody busk made it impossible to do half the things she’d dreamed of doing. Now all that covered her trembling body were her gartered stockings and her thin shift.
She lifted her gaze to the fully clothed man watching her. His hazel eyes darkened with passion, but he made no move to disrobe. Very well. She would do it for him. She sat on her heels and considered him. This was a good task. Something positive to concentrate on. She would empty her mind of everything but the man lounging next to her on the mattress.
She began with his coat. Why was he wearing a coat? Had he intended to go out-of-doors? No matter. She was here now. The gold buttons easily slipped free of the dark blue fabric. He sat up a little when she pulled at the sleeves, helping her work his arms free. She pushed the coat to the floor. It landed with a soft whoosh against the thick carpet.
Mr. Bothwick looked just as handsome unencumbered by a jacket. If anything, it was easier to see that the width of his shoulders had not been exaggerated by padding, that the muscular arms still encased by billowing lawn were as hard and strong as they’d always seemed. If twice as warm. Still on her knees before him, she ran her fingertips down the front of his waistcoat. His entire body radiated heat.
She drew in a deep breath and focused on his cravat. It was perfectly white, perfectly starched, perfectly styled. In a house of this size, he certainly had a few servants. But where had he found a man able to tie a cravat as beautifully as this? Had he done so himself?
The fleeting thought returned that Mr. Bothwick would not look out of place in a ballroom. He was striking, even without his smartly tailored coat. She reached for him. He obligingly leaned forward. A few careful tugs loosened the knot at his throat. She crumpled the cravat and tossed it aside. There. Now he didn’t look like a gentleman. Now he looked rakish. Dangerous.
