Chapter Twenty-Five
Jonathan was just about to snuff the candle when the door opened, and Gen entered his chamber.
Although he’d ached for her to visit, they were guests in someone else’s home, so her sudden appearance surprised him—in the very best way.
He whipped off his blanket and stood. Enjoying the way her gaze raked over his bare torso and small clothes, he ensconced her in his purposely wicked grin.
“Jonathan,” she said as she approached, “I can’t sleep.”
He met her in the center of the room, then wrapped her in his arms. “Neither can I.”
He suspected there were very different reasons for their insomnia. First and foremost, he had no idea if they were engaged. And then sitting across from her at dinner, and beside her in the carriage, had obliterated his self-restraint. More than anything, he wanted to make love to her.
She, on the other hand, was probably nervous about her first mill.
Gen had worked hard, but despite her athletic prowess, Roseanna was the larger, more experienced fighter, which was enough to make any athlete fret. Still, he should inquire about Gen’s concerns, since he was shite at predicting a woman’s thoughts and motivation.
He gently tilted her chin so that he could look into her eyes. “Is something troubling you?”
“I suppose I am quite nervous about tomorrow.”
“Ah.” He’d been correct. “Of course you are. ’Tis normal to be nervous before an athletic competition. You should have seen me before a fencing bout. Up all night, partially from excitement and partially from nerves.”
Her tight jaw relaxed with her smile. “I can’t picture you being nervous about a sport. You are so very agile and … well, for lack of a better word, wily.”
“Wily? Like a fox or a coyote?”
“Yes. Exactly. A trickster who is hard to catch, always one step ahead. Albeit a canine with lovely green eyes, and very expressive hair.”
Showing off his “lovely green eyes,” he batted his lashes. However, he had no idea what she meant by “expressive hair.”
Almost as if she read his mind, she wound a strand around her finger. “For instance, right now, it is saying, ‘I am quite the beautiful peacock.’”
He threw his head back and chuckled. Then he met her gaze.
“But I’m not always a cocksure fool.” At least not when it came to knowing how to love a woman—love her.
And then there were his academic abilities.
Although, he reminded himself, you no longer give a shite about your reading skills.
These days he had a word shield and a trustworthy man of business. Hallelujah!
“Oh?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m only cocksure about ninety-five percent of the time. The other five percent, my hair must be lying flat and personality-less.”
She giggled. “Your hair is never personality-less. Neither are you. And I am teasing. I quite like when you are confident. You should be, because you are wonderful.”
Lord above, she made him feel as if he was the sun in the sky, and he rather liked when she playfully taunted him.
He tucked a strand of her silky locks behind her ear.
“Seriously, Gen, is there something I can do to help you fall asleep?” Tup?
Swive? Rut? Ride St George. Blow the blanket hornpipe? Make the beast with two backs—
“Perhaps if you could help me relax. Mayhap we could try the massa for my muscles that you are supposed to do in the morning before the mill.”
“Oh, I know how to make you relax,” he declared with an exaggerated lift of his brow.
He thought his indecent allusion was delightfully witty. But her shoulders lifted and then heavily dropped with her sigh.
“I’m teasing, Gen. I knew exactly what you meant. Come. Sit.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and escorted her to the bed.
While nibbling on her lip, she perched on the edge of the mattress, her back as stiff as a board. Her legs dangled; her feet not touching the floor. The poor woman was wound tighter than his recently wound pocket watch.
He unwrapped her shawl, folded it in half, and hung it over the footboard. Skirting the mattress, he crawled across the bed to kneel behind her.
“Just relax,” he cooed in her ear, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “Remember, this is just an exhibition. ’Tis for you to gain experience. It will not go on your record. It will give Bear a chance to see your skills without an official winner being declared.”
She peered over her shoulder and smiled at him, instantly turning him into a pile of sugary pudding.
He hadn’t had his lesson from the lady coaches, but he didn’t feel as though he needed one—knowing his way around a female body like he did.
Besides, he knew what his sore overtrained muscles craved.
He placed his hands on her dainty shoulders.
Kneading gently at first, he worked his hands deeper as her muscles softened.
The gaunt waif he’d found on the streets had filled out.
Her sinew was well-formed, and power packed every stone of her slender physique.
She leaned back against his torso.
Absorbing her body weight, he dug his thumbs into her shoulder blades, working his way to her neck. All the while, she emitted sensual sounds that landed in his pelvis and then tickled the length of his cock.
“That feels wonderful,” she murmured.
If she kept up the utterances, he would cream his small clothes while rubbing her back. Humiliating, that.
Coach Valentine insists abstinence is important to winning, he reminded himself. Not that Jonathan had ever abstained before competition. But he’d been young and foolish, and a foil was not a fist.
All of this inner chatter was pointless, because he’d already made up his mind.
Despite his wants and needs, he would rub her until she fell asleep.
Thereupon, he’d tuck her under the counterpane, then go to sleep himself.
He absolutely would not coerce her into having sex.
At least not tonight. On the morrow, after her mill was over, all bets were off.
“Let’s get you out of this,” said the saintly sponsor residing beneath his skin. “I will be able to work your muscles better if they are not covered with fabric.”
Saintly? Never. It was a good thing she couldn’t see him roll his eyes at his own absurdity. Although he was trying to make her relax.
Wasn’t he?
She lifted her arms, and he pulled her nightdress over her head. He tossed it onto the floor, then swallowed a cyclone of lust.
Perhaps he’d committed a grave error, because the dark hair cascading over her alabaster shoulders was too much temptation for a mere mortal to withstand.
He patted a pillow. “Face down.” He wasn’t certain if he meant for his suggestion to come out as a scoundrel’s demand, but there it was hanging between them, hoarse, unyielding, and as authoritative as the devil.
The naked woman in his bed did as he bade, leaving the back of her body vulnerable to his perusal. And peruse her, he did.
She was carved marble perfection. Michelangelo himself would be in awe. A small brown freckle on her right buttock seemed to wink at him. Touch. Kiss. Lick, the perfect imperfection taunted.
Steeling himself against her naughty freckle, he straddled her hips, then brushed her glossy hair out of the way so that he could knead her back.
Fighting his libido was no easy task. Her sensual sounds and smooth skin were akin to biscuits to a starving man. As his cock grew hard, and his breathing became labored, he tried to concentrate on her muscles softening beneath his touch.
“Oh,” she moaned.
Assuming he’d been a clumsy gollumpus, he withdrew his hands.
“Jonathan,” she said breathlessly.
Was that lust in her voice?
She wriggled her arse, a dangerous game indeed while in bed with a scoundrel. At least his small clothes protected her delicate insides from his stabbing prick.
“Be still,” he said. “Not unless you want me to give up on your muscles and fuck you.”
She gasped, then halted her wriggling.
Damnation, he was a lecherous rat. Massa for her muscles, his arse. He’d encouraged her to climb into his bed, and then he’d tricked her into getting naked. Disgusted with himself, he crawled off her.
She rolled over to look up at him, her lashes fluttering. Long, satiny strands of hair splayed over his pillow. Her pebbled nipples reached for him.
Fuck! He wanted her so much he could barely breathe. Perhaps he needed to put a few rooms between them. And a long hallway. Maybe an ocean—or two.
“Jonathan,” she said, her voice a sensual plea. “I think it will help me relax if you make love to me.”
Well, dip him in gravy and call him a hunk of beef. “But Coach Valentine’s rule?” he asked, because he needed to be sure she’d thought this through. He couldn’t live with himself if she wasn’t her best for her fight because of him.
“Fiddlesticks.” She cradled his jaw in her palms. “’Tis a stupid rule. If I can’t relax because I want you, I’m not going to fight well. Besides, what if making love gives me more energy and I fight better? Something tells me it will.”
Perhaps she was correct and unlike men, women were more energetic and aggressive after sexual congress. Now that was a bloody beautiful prospect. “Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly, since he didn’t want her to change her mind.
“Absolutely and completely.”
Thank fuck. Leaning down, he captured her mouth. She kissed him back with equal fervor.
They were panting and breathless when they broke from their kiss so that he could rid himself of his bottoms. He slid the cotton down his legs, kicking his small clothes to the floor.
Her body writhing, she reached for him. Before she had time to change her mind, he swung a leg over her and straddled her hips.
Now that he had trapped her beneath him, he found her sweet lips.
With their bare torsos pressed together, and her nipples scraping his chest, the thumping of their hearts synced.
She closed her eyes. “Jonathan,” she murmured between kisses as she ground her pelvis against his.
“I want you to look into my eyes while I’m inside you,” he said.