Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

“I do know that.” She chased a pea around her plate.

“Do you? I’ve had the banns read, twice, in front of the whole village. Threats, vandals, rocks to the head—I’ve endured all of these in recent weeks, and none of them have shaken my plans to rebuild Nethermoor, nor my belief that we’re meant to marry. But you still don’t trust me on this.”

“On what? Marriage?” She raised her eyebrows and her voice. “You don’t trust me on the subject either. If you did, you’d offer me a real choice in the matter. I don’t recall ever being asked if I’d like to marry you, simply told that it’s inevitable. Instead of a proposal, I get … autocratic commands and prophetic pronouncements. Where’s the trust in that?”

Rhys shook his head. “Eat,” he told her. “The bathwater’s going cool.”

“You’re right. Let’s not argue.” She gave him a self-effacing smile. “We’ll laugh about this in the morning.”

He frowned. Was that what she thought? That everything would change by the morning? Maybe this was the source of her reluctance. She thought that his determination to marry her would disappear once he’d purged the lust from his system.

Well. He’d simply have to prove to her that those fears were groundless. And the way to do so was to make love to her tonight, make it very, very good, and show her none of his intentions had changed the next morning.

Not exactly a chore, that.

He ate quickly, as always. When he looked up from his plate, he found her watching him, circling the rim of her wineglass with a fingertip.

“Are you finished?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.

“Oh, yes.” She rose from her seat.

“Now, can we make the bath just as speedy as the meal?”

“If we bathe together, we can.”

Rhys rather liked that suggestion. Parts of him liked it very well indeed.

He ushered her over to the bathing area, where she spent a good minute cooing over the glazed ceramic tiles and painted washbasin while she removed her hairpins at the vanity.

While her attention was diverted, Rhys took the opportunity to quickly and discreetly undress. No matter how many times she assured him she wasn’t repulsed by his scars, that she found his body—against all reason—attractive, he still felt apprehensive about revealing all of himself. She’d seen him shirtless, but full nudity was another thing altogether. Between the lamps and the mirrors and the glittering white tile, there was simply too much light bouncing around, eager to illuminate his every flaw and imperfection.

And his body had a great many flaws and imperfections.

Once bared, he crossed the room silently and moved to stand behind her at the vanity. There was a mirror there, and she didn’t startle. She must have watched him approach. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pivoted her away from the mirror, not wanting to see his own damaged face staring back at him. She leaned back against him, settling her weight against his bare chest.

Rhys sucked in his breath. He reached his arms around her, and with stiff, clumsy fingers, he yanked at the closures of her traveling jacket.

Sighing, she leaned forward and lowered her arms so he could shake the jacket free. He cast it aside and started on the buttons of her crisp, high-necked chemisette. Her breathing came more quickly now. His fingers worked lower, and lower still, and her br**sts rose and fell. As though they were as eager to be displayed as he was to view them.

When he’d eased the last tiny button free, he drew the halves of her chemisette to the sides, baring her creamy neck and chest, her small br**sts covered by the frailest layer of muslin and supported by tightly laced stays. The dark valley between her br**sts held secrets and suggestions.

“Lovely,” he breathed, moving his hands to the small of her back so he could loosen the knot of her laces. He’d wanted to do this for so long. So many nights he’d lain awake dreaming of it—first on the rocky ground, then on the stony plinth, at last on the wood-planked floor. Every night, he’d tried to ignore the uncomfortable surface beneath his weary bones by filling his mind with thoughts of her. The gentle curves of her body, the exquisite softness of her skin.

And here she stood before him, half bared and fully willing, and he couldn’t work the damn knot. It wasn’t the tightness of the tapes or the limitations of his mangled hands. He was nervous as hell. Unable to make his fingers work, yet impatient to taste her, he bent his head and kissed the side of her throat.

She gasped, letting her head roll to the side.

Taking what she offered, he kissed his way up the elongated slope of her neck. Licking and nibbling at her delicate skin, suckling the tiny pearl of her unadorned earlobe.

“Oh, Rhys,” she sighed, tilting her head back.

The way she moaned for him … it made his blood catch fire.

“Oh my God,” she said, craning her neck a bit more. “Just look at the scrollwork on that ceiling.”