Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Is this another confession, Lady Saskia?”
It wasn’t the question itself that drove a sudden spike of desire straight through Saskia.
It was the suggestive spark in Liam’s eyes and the way his voice deepened as he spoke it.
“Sometimes,” she began, “I write a perfect sentence. An objectively perfect string of one word following another that comes together with beauty and purpose. But such a sentence is rare. What usually flows from my pen is an imperfect arrangement of words that must be nurtured and poured over and rearranged, then rearranged again. Oh, I suffer.”
“Weren’t you writing tonight?”
“I…was.” If what she’d been doing could’ve been called writing.
His gaze cast about the room, then landed—on the desk in the corner, papers strewn haphazardly across its surface.
In the same instant, his intent revealed itself.
With graceless abandon, Saskia shoved off the bed at the same moment he lunged toward the desk.
It was a short-lived race, however, when her, “No-no-no,” transformed into, “Ouch-ouch-ouch!” her progress halted by the big toe of her right foot meeting the sturdy walnut leg of an end table.
Instantly, Liam pivoted and rushed toward her. “What’s happened? Are you injured?”
Saskia hopped on one foot. “I stubbed my toe.” She touched her foot to the floor and attempted to apply weight to it. An instantaneous, “Urgh,” escaped her and again she was hopping like a hobbled bunny.
“Oh, woman,” Liam nearly growled as he erased the remaining distance between them and scooped her up in his arms, provoking a squeak from her before depositing her on the bed.
She had to tip her head back to say, “Thank you.”
He hadn’t needed to carry her. She could’ve limped back herself. But for those few seconds, she’d been in his arms, and perhaps she was thanking him for that.
He gave a nod, but that was his only movement.
“Truly,” she said.
Surely, he understood he was free to return to his former place beside the dressing table.
But he didn’t return to his former place beside the dressing table. Instead, he lowered to his haunches and reached for her foot.
“Liam, you don’t have to—”
“Let’s take a look at the damage, shall we?”
He removed her slipper. That slipper was more than ten years old and had followed her into this life from her old one. She could only pray there wasn’t a smell.
He held her naked foot up to what mellow light there was and examined it from every angle. She would’ve seen the humor if it weren’t for a few pertinent facts.
One, her toe yet throbbed.
Two, it was possible her feet weren’t her best feature. They were functional and useful and she’d never once given them a moment’s thought.
But it was the third fact that had the blood rushing hot and jangly through her veins: he was touching her. Awareness pulsed through her with each beat of her heart—of his strong, capable hands upon her, their callouses subtly rough against the tender skin of her foot.
“Can you move your toe?”
She gave it a testing wiggle.
“Ah.” He nodded, pleased. “Not broken then. It is swelling and will likely bruise, but it’ll come out all right.”
“As you’re someone who has broken a bone—”
“Three bones over the years.”
“—I appreciate your professional assessment.”
He nodded sagely. “Do you know what makes a stubbed toe feel all better?”
Saskia searched her mind. “Elevation? A cold compress?”
He angled forward and pressed his mouth to her toe, his lips soft and warm against her, shocking her to her…toes. “A wee kiss,” he said, shifting back.
“That’s your professional opinion?” How breathless she’d gone, her voice barely above a whisper.
He held her gaze, steady. “Was my kiss effective?”
In truth, she couldn’t feel her toe, not with all these other feelings whirring through her. “I, erm, yes.”
“While we’re on the subject of suffering…”
“Are we still on that subject?”
“Oh, aye.”
A single hair could flutter to the floor and she would hear it.
“I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, Saskia. I suffer.”
“Oh?” Somehow, she didn’t think they were talking about horse racing or stubbed toes anymore. “What makes you suffer, Liam?”
A smile twitched about his mouth, both serious and amused. “You.”
“Me?”
“I suffer from want of you. Your presence when we are parted. Your conversation…your mind…your seriousness…your laughter…your…”
“My?”
“Self.”
She just caught her mouth before it went agape. “My self?”
“You know.” He swept his gaze up and down the length of her body.
“How…what a…” she sputtered. “What a shallow appraisal,” she said of necessity—the necessity of putting distance between his words and their impact on her.
But those necessary, distancing words had no effect on him. “Every inch of you beneath all these woolen layers is beautiful, Saskia, and I’m only a man. Aye, I want your body. But its beauty isn’t why I suffer for it."
The world might’ve stopped spinning around the sun, and she wouldn’t know it.
“It’s that this body contains you.” He shook his head. “I’m not versed in words, like you, so I’m probably saying it all wrong.”
She shook her head. “I can’t think of a more perfect way of arranging those words.”
Opaque emotion, dark and sinuous, passed behind his eyes. Actually, that emotion wasn’t entirely opaque. More than a glimmer of wickedness flashed through it, as he asked, “Does your toe need another kiss?”
“I believe it does.”
He was asking permission and she was granting it—for him to kiss her toe…and what was destined to follow.
Destiny, a word that carried mystical weight.
It simply encompassed so much—perhaps everything that is and was.
Perhaps a word that encompassed them.
She reclined back onto her elbows and watched down the length of her body as Liam again brought her toe to his mouth and kissed it.
Except he didn’t only kiss it; he took it between his teeth, provoking a shocked gasp from her as his tongue swirled around, warm and velvety. He bit down lightly. She squealed.
A wicked smile in his eyes, he moved on from her toe, his tongue dragging along her instep, tickling her, but also inciting a now-familiar feeling—desire. Higher he trailed—over ankle…up her calf, lifting her robe as he went. When he reached her knees, he hesitated.
She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, which, possibly, explained her lightheadedness.
But she didn’t think so.
It was him.
What he was doing to her now…what his eyes promised he would continue doing.
He unfolded his long, muscle-lean body as he rose. At near eye level, there it was—the outline of his cock, long and rigid, straining against his trousers.
Her mouth went dry.
He shrugged off his evening coat, made quick work of his cravat, his waistcoat promptly following.
Before her, he stood in shirt and trousers, looking so very male and so very desirable.
He tugged his shirt from his waistband and pulled it over his head.
How she ached for him. Unable not to, she pushed off her arms, momentum carrying her forward, the few inches separating them a few too many.
She reached out and hooked a finger into the waistband, pulling him forward into the space between her legs. She took in his male beauty—the corded muscles of his shoulders and arms…his ridged stomach…the dusting of golden hair on his chest, narrowing down his stomach, leading the eye down…
And there it was—his big cock.
Lust, pure and urgent, shimmered through her as her fingers began working the buttons of his trousers. When his manhood fell free, she heard a gasp—her own.
His throat cleared.
When she lifted her gaze, his eyes sparkled with amusement. She’d been caught staring. Ogling, more like.
“I seem to remember you mentioning you’ve liked what you see for some time now.”
Even as she groaned, she couldn’t regret having told him of her infatuation.
How bold she’d become.
“Last time,” he began. It wasn’t necessary to clarify which time was last time. “I noticed something you liked.”
Anticipation slipped through her, tempting her into further daring. “Oh?”
“I’d rather show than tell.”
Pupils flared with desire and purpose—intention…promise—he reached down and wrapped his hand around himself. Oh. His hand moved, slowly, deliberately, as he began stroking his length.
Lust, hot and urgent, spiked through Saskia. Her lungs forgot how to breathe. It wasn’t only desire shimmering through her, but also a slightly transgressive feeling that she might like.
“Take off your robe, Saskia.”
She unknotted the sash and let the garment slip off her shoulders.
“Now your chemise.”
She brought her legs beneath her and rose so she was kneeling as she lifted the chemise over her head and flung it away.
“Oh, Saskia.”
The way he was looking at her as he stroked himself…
with lust, yes, but also with longing. It was her he desired, but also her body on its own.
Herself reduced to parts—her weighty breasts…
her curves…her cunny… How he wanted her.
Yes, she liked seeing him touch himself.
But she liked this, too—being lusted after… being longed for…
By him.
“Now.”
“Yes?”
“Touch yourself, Saskia.”
Sudden doubt stirred. Touch herself?
“Didn’t you once tell me turnabout is fair play?” A wicked smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “And, my love, I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Her fingers, trembly and uncertain, began at the indent of her throat, tracing down to her breast, touching her nipple.
He stroked himself harder. She lightly pinched the taut nub between forefinger and thumb as her other hand trailed down her body to her mons pubis.
She didn’t know exactly what was expected, so she let instinct take her. Shyly, she spread her legs.
Could one spread one’s legs shyly?
The answer was yes, for she was split into two selves—shy and bold. And in this moment, with this man, inhibition would not hold her back, as she touched herself for his pleasure.
His eyes heavy-lidded with desire, his voice frayed, he asked, “Remember what I did with my tongue?”
Did she ever remember…