Chapter Fifteen
Jonathan did not favor running in circles for sport, especially when fencing and boxing existed.
He also enjoyed a spirited game of cricket.
On the rare occasions that he visited Millhurst, a hike about the grounds or a horse ride across the dales held appeal.
But trotting across London with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth until his lungs warmed up, huffing and puffing, and pounding his feet on cobblestones in a pair of shoes that had very little cushioning, had never held appeal.
Until this morning. With her.
Perhaps his changed opinion was because Gen had smiled the entire run. Or maybe it was the beautiful scenery. Unless, God forbid, deep inside, he was a predator.
At first, he’d chased her because she’d taunted him into a race.
But then some sort of predatory urge had taken over, and he’d wanted to catch her so that he could hold her captive and make her his.
They’d gently wrestled for a moment as he tried to pull her backward so that they crossed the arbitrary finish line together.
She fought back with a shove, which only enticed him further.
He’d ended up letting go because the beast within him was entirely too hungry and craved to swallow her whole.
Even now, hours later, the thought of overpowering her aroused him, as evidenced by his pego.
There was no point in spending the afternoon staring at the stack of unread ledgers on his desk. Glaring at the pile wouldn’t make it go away, and so far the interviews had been a huge waste of time. He leaned back in his chair and widened his legs to make room for his growing arousal.
Closing his eyes, he palmed the bulge beneath his trousers and pictured Gen, her wide eyes blinking as he ripped his clothing from her body. Her pert nipples pebbled. He slid his finger inside of her. Liquid slicked her quim.
Someone knocked on his door.
“Bloody Peters,” Jonathan moaned in disgust. After spending the morning trying to keep his hands off a beautiful woman, a man deserved time alone to enjoy a harmless fantasy.
He opened his eyes and removed his hand from his lap. “Come in,” he called, his voice husky.
The door opened, and Gen glided into the room, Horatio at her side.
Since he’d been expecting a gray-haired butler, the woman strolling to him in a low-cut purple dress was a welcome visitor.
Contrary to the character she pretended to be, she was no gutter chit.
This woman had a regal bearing. Which again raised the question, who in the hell was Gen?
Probably just her athletic prowess that makes her so graceful.
Or maybe she was a lady’s maid.
He couldn’t stand, cockstand and all, and his greeting caught in his throat.
Towels hanging over her forearm, she carried a bowl of what looked like pastry icing. She came around his desk to stand beside him, then placed the items in front of him.
He peered into the bowl of pink confection.
The confounding content had not set yet, so Gen must have recently retrieved it from the kitchen.
Odd indeed, unless she truly was an unsophisticated clochard who thought one devoured bowls of icing for an afternoon repast. He’d heard women craved sugary treats when they experienced their monthly courses, not that he had ever inquired about such things.
No matter the reason for her odd choice of refreshment, he had no desire to embarrass her or spoil her fun, and there were far worse snacks than a bowl of sugar and eggs, so he clamped his lips together.
She pointed at his forearm and rolled her fingers.
“I don’t understand.”
She tapped his arm and again rolled her fingers.
“Do you want me to roll up my sleeve?”
She nodded.
“Are you going to decorate my arm and then nosh on it?”
Her brow furrowed, and then she laughed, the pleasant tinkling sound skittered over his cheek, sending his lips into a broad smile, which only lasted until he realized he wanted her mouth on his skin. Licking, tasting, suckling… His cock twitched, and his frown deepened.
Not again, he reprimanded the unruly beast. He conjured an image of horse dung on his boot. It worked, and he reigned in his libido. Curious as to what she was up to, he rolled up his sleeve.
She guided his arm to the desk so that his forearm faced the ceiling. She was so close to him that her breath tickled his cheek, and her rose-scented chignon brushed his shoulder.
Behave, he berated his randy cock.
She dipped her index finger into the icing and then painted a straight line alongside his elbow. He breathlessly watched as she drew a line on top of it, forming what looked like the letter T.
HAN, she added, leaving heated sparks in her finger’s wake.
If her goal was to entice him to throw her onto his desk, coat her with icing, and lick her body clean, she was doing a damn fine job.
However, it was far more likely that she was writing a message, even after he’d told her he couldn’t read.
Of course, he could decipher the big, pink, rose-scented letters that she was searing into his skin.
K, she wrote.
“K,” he read.
She halted and stared into his eyes. Assuming she was finished, he read the letters out loud. “T H A N K.”
She must be thanking him. He almost felt guilty for wanting to ravish her on top of his desk.
Smiling, she returned to her task, painting YOU.
“You are welcome,” he said.
Using one of the towels, she cleaned the icing from his arm, then dried him with the other. She dipped her finger into the icing twice as she drew an F. Apparently, she’d cleaned the slate and was starting over with a new word. He held his breath as she added O R E V E R Y T H I N G.
“For everything,” he read. “’Tis my pleasure.”
Smiling, she cleaned and dried his arm, then wrote, YOUR TURN. Her gaze expectant, she waited. She seemed to be giving him a chance to ask her questions. But where should he start, since he had so many?
His fingertips beat a tattoo on the desk while he pondered his question as if his life depended on it. “How old are you?” he eventually asked.
She dipped her finger into her paint, then sketched 21. Beside the numbers she wrote, T W E N T Y O N E.
If she meant to teach him to read, she would be sorely disappointed.
The best teachers at the finest schools had failed, as had Nicolas, Nurse Brown, and his mother.
However, this was a way for them to communicate.
Besides, he enjoyed her touch and the closeness that came with it.
He also enjoyed looking at her arms, neck, and shoulders.
To hell with her usual modest garments, this dress suited.
He would have to ask his mother to take her to the modiste.
He shook himself back to the task at hand. He should probably prioritize her safety above everything else. “Gen, why are you afraid of Kilsby? What did he do to you?”
She dropped her gaze to the carpet, the bold, enticing woman morphing back into the timid girl.
A vein in his temples throbbed until red-hot anger took hold of him, snuffing rational thought. “If I find out he hurt you, I will destroy him.” He actually snarled.
Her hands quivering, and still staring at the floor, she shook her head emphatically.
Why didn’t she want him to harm someone who obviously terrified her?
He pushed his thumb and forefinger into either side of his nose, pressing his anger deep. She’d given him a chance to communicate with him, but it seemed she had no intention of telling him who she was. Maybe he had to build up to the difficult questions, and he definitely had to stay calm.
“What is your favorite color?” he asked.
Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled. While she dipped her finger into the icing, he settled his arm on the desk.
BLUE, she wrote.
“Mine too,” he said. Especially the ocean blue of her eyes. “How long have you known Horatio?”
Horatio, who had curled up in a sunbeam coming in from the window, opened his eyes.
3 WEEKS?
The question mark must mean that she was unsure.
Did that mean she’d met Horatio when she was living on the streets, and she’d been homeless for almost three weeks before he found her?
What if he hadn’t gone back for her that night?
She might have starved, or frozen to death.
Or maybe the adolescents would have discovered she was a woman and misused her body.
Bile inched its way up his throat.
But he had gone back for her, and he would protect her with his life, so he must snuff his sentimental what-ifs. Hiding his feelings behind a charming grin was almost always the best course of action. So smile he would.
He forced the corners of his lips upward. “Do you have questions for me?”
Nodding, she dipped her finger into the bowl, brought her finger to his arm, then halted.
He waited.
Her thick lashes fluttered as she blinked.
She must have a corker of a question.
Sighing, she let her finger drop to her side. She unwittingly smeared icing on the skirt of her pretty dress.
He’d try to address everything she might want to know.
“I did not lie to you. I am not involved in a relationship with Celeste. Or any other woman, for that matter. I had fun doing road work with you today, and in a few days, we can do it again. My favorite food is bacon, and I favor dogs, cats, horses, and goats.” And he didn’t care who she was; he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her until neither of them saw straight.
Her gaze met his, and they stared into each other’s eyes. The desire to take care of her was almost as strong as the desire to press his lips to hers. He picked up a towel and cleaned the icing from her dress. Then, he stared at her icing-coated finger.
Taste, the devil inside him taunted.
No. He was her protector. Her benefactor.
So sweet.
Undoubtedly, but that did not matter.
Look at her chest heaving, and the passion in her eyes. She wants you.
But in the long run, he would break her heart because he was unable to commit.
Taste. Now.
The future was so far away. To the devil with everything but the here and now and this tempting woman before him.
Standing, he took her hand in his and brought her finger to his lips.
Her breath hitched, and she exhaled and succumbed, allowing him to mold his hardness to her softness.
With all barriers between them gone, he licked away the icing.
Sweet rosewater and tangy skin were his complete undoing. He sucked her finger into his mouth.
She gasped.
Her finger wasn’t enough to sate him. He needed all of her. He released her finger, intent on capturing her lips, but a force hit him from the side. Teetering, he blinked as Gen backed away.
“Floppy, no,” he said as the wagging dog pressed his paws into his hip.
Seeming to understand that Jonathan was vexed, the mutt dropped onto all fours.
He lifted his nose into the air and sniffed.
Placing his front paws on the desk, Floppy turned his attention to the bowl and shoved his snout into it.
Jonathan helplessly watched as the dog lapped up their makeshift ink.
Laughing so hard that she snorted, Gen slid the bowl out of the pup’s reach, then waggled her finger at Floppy.
Jonathan huffed. There was no way he could reprimand a dog whose eyes were crossed as he enthusiastically tried to lick a pink dollop from the tip of his nose.
“My lord,” Peters said from the doorway. “Lady Davenport asked me to let you know that your meal is ready.”
Dinner came earlier each evening since they were spending so much time at The Silk Knuckles.
Not that Jonathan cared about that. However, this longing consuming him since Gen had entered his life was beyond vexing.
It seemed that even the universe knew that he shouldn’t kiss Gen.
Still, his heart and his body were loath to accept it.
“Thank you, Peters,” he said. “Shall we?” he asked Gen.
She gathered her towels, bowls, and dog.
Begrudgingly Jonathan escorted Gen and her overprotective, pego-jamming mutt to the dining parlor.