Now, Fifi’s eyes burned with a warm shade of earthy umber, the candelabrum’s light illuminating streaks of fire dancing in their depths. But her gaze held other things as well. Inexperience. Uncertainty. Apprehension. The inexperience and uncertainty he could work with. But the apprehension killed him a thousand times each second.
“Are you certain?” he gently prodded, to her answer of yes to him washing her intimate flesh. His voice was smooth despite the tumult raging inside. Despite the fear she would stop him.
Her cheeks were a delectable rosy crimson and the delicate muscles at her throat seemed to work for an eternity before she spoke with a breathy, “Ye … yes.”
The force of relief and desire hitting him was a precarious combination. But he sent her his rakish smile, eager to bring her pleasure. And eager to ride the waves of lust vibrating through his own body.
“Open your legs,” he whispered, with the softest hint of a command.
Slade had to swallow the moisture watering his mouth.
Her clenched legs parted slowly.
He proceeded to tease the smooth luscious skin of her inner thighs, his motions lingering until the apprehension in her eyes was almost replaced with heat.
Then with the pressure of a butterfly’s wings against a rose petal, he brushed the linen over the center of her pleasure. She gasped and arched her back. Her eyes widened with a plethora of emotions. Surprise. Pleasure. And perhaps awareness of her own body. The smooth, wet, slick feel of her made his already hard body push painfully against his breeches.
“Shall I continue?” His voice was low and rough.
“Ah … yes,” she whispered.
Her lips were slightly parted, moistened, and reddened with the hue of her fear and arousal. Her fear steadied his hands.Despite his simmering rage for Ross, his reverence for Fifi held him together. Also holding him together was the naive fourteen-year-old boy he’d been when he’d first met a nine-year-old lass he’d dubbed Fifi, because of her elfin mischievousness, untainted ideals, and open friendship, when he himself had grown tired of his father’s coldness, resulting from his mother’s death.
Slade brushed his fingers against her again, this time parting the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs. His movement slower with marginally more pressure. Her eyes darkened, smoldering, and fixated on him. He flicked and pinched but his fingers were infuriatingly constrained by the linen. The rise and fall of her breasts quickened, almost making him lose his focus. She groaned.
Slade was relentless and methodical, but slow, as if he had all the time in the world. She rolled her hips to meet his fingers as her hands gripped the sides of the wooden tub. Her breathing and soft guttural sounds of pleasure became louder. He kept his pace exacting and careful, the same as the pace of her quickening breath.
There was no greater aphrodisiac than the way her half-lidded gaze focused on his. It was the most erotic experience of his life, perhaps because he was focused on her pleasure.
As the pace of her breathing became ragged, he growled with frustration at the linen and ended up tossing the damn thing aside and using his thumb and forefinger. The silken soft feel of her against his bare fingers, coupled with her tight wet heat made Slade’s mind and body almost come apart. He imagined his mouth replacing his hands. Slade was skilled at making a woman find her release but one that had been hurt was a challenge. He had to wait for the exact moment the fear left her eyes.
When her lids dropped, and she gave into the pleasure completely, he increased the intensity of his ministrations.
Phoebe came apart in soft broken moans, her body shuddering with tremulous vibrations, her core squeezing in pulsating spasms around his fingers. A hot gratifying feeling washed over Slade, despite being still as hard as steel, and painfully erect against the fabric of his breeches.
After her body went limp, Slade gently lifted his wife and placed her to stand at the side of the tub, supporting her with his arms.
“I … I’ve never had a bath like that before,” she said, sounding adorably surprised, and innocent, her cheeks turning crimson.
Slade sent her a devilish smile as he picked up a large dry linen from the stack at the side of the tub and wrapped it around her. “The first of many, if you’ll have it,” he said.
He eyed the seductive and delicious afterglow on her skin as she donned her dressing robe. She then glided over to the polished mahogany dressing stand, with its gleaming mirror, gold-wreath designed hairbrush, and tiny delicate scented bottles. He casually leaned against the bedpost taking in her relaxed countenance with great satisfaction.
But then Fifi faced his reflection in her mirror as she brushed her hair. “I must visit a friend on the isle of Beinn na Faoghla,” she said, her tone casual.
Something cold doused the heat strumming through his body. No one had friends on Beinn na Faoghla. It was an isle with a few fishing villages, a sparse regiment of redcoats hoping to catch the rebel leader Prince Charles Edward Stuart and a wily old Bullfinch called Donald Lochiel. He’d met the man in Fontenoy, and in many ways, the Bullfinch had saved him, saved him from his demons, and from himself.
“When?” he asked.
“I have to make the journey in a few days.”
“I’ll accompany you,” he said in a clipped tone.
Fifi’s brows shot up, the rosiness from her cheeks draining, as she swiveled around on her seat. “It’s quite unnecessary for you to take time away from your work, I’d be safe enough with Aila and a MacLean escort,” she said.
The thought that she could run into Ross had his insides turning to ice. “Forgive me, but I really must insist. I would feel better protecting you myself. Who knows what kinds of highwaymen, or brigands are lurking about on such a deserted isle,” he said.
The disappointment in her eyes cut him to the quick. She’d no doubt wanted to keep her work for the Movement a secret. But on this point of her traveling alone, he wouldn’t budge.
