“I am, my lady.”
She drew a long breath, releasing it slowly. “Indeed, your hands work wonders. I am enjoying this.”
Another of her frankly stated truths.
But one that streaked right through him to land squarely in his groin.
“I am pleased,” he managed, opting to be as forthright, amazed he could speak, so fierce was the heated tightening in his loins.
So great the swelling of his heart.
“I knew your back-” He broke off, catching his mistake.
‘Twas her shoulders he kneaded through the soft linen of her chemise, not her back. Yet, some weird magic lying thick in the silver-kissed air made him half-believe even thinking his wishes this night might see them granted.
He wanted to touch more than her shoulders. He wished…
Hell, he burned for her to ask him to glide his hands lower, to massage her aching back as well. Trouble was, the raging need straining thick and hard against his hose couldn’t withstand such a temptation.
His once-praised stamina, defeated by the supple curve of a single chemise-encased back.
“Truly, sir…” she began, then paused as the most delicate shiver rippled through her. “My back aches more than my shoulders. It is there your hands would best serve me.”
“Lady, that isn’t-”
“Proper?”
Marmaduke frowned, sure she was smiling. Perhaps stifling a laugh. For sure, he wasn’t about to lean down and round to peer at her face to see.
There comes a time ladies tire of proper, he thought he heard her say.
Before he could decide, she reached up to circle her hands around his wrists and lift them from her shoulders. In that moment, he knew what she was going to do.
Heart thumping, he squared his own shoulders against the challenge he was about to face, stared past her out the tall, arch-topped windows, and waited.
Far out to sea, high above the horizon, a horned moon sailed from behind a cloud, its wan light spilling little more than a thin thread of silver across the night-blackened waters, but somehow managing to illuminate each unveiled inch of creamy skin she revealed to him.
And, thanks to the advantage of his great height, that blissful view included the lush rounds of her breasts.
“Saints, Maria, and Joseph,” he fair snarled, borrowing Duncan MacKenzie’s favorite oath, past caring if she knew she’d set him on his ear by peeling down her undergown clear to her waist.
“I’ve surprised you again.” She looked up at him over her bared shoulder, her blue gaze guileless, her full breasts, moon-washed and glorious.
Aching to be caressed.
Her hardened nipples demanded to be attended in ways that would make the devil beg forgiveness.
“You are talented in that, it would seem.” Marmaduke winced at the stilted sound of his voice. A eunuch could have addressed her more smoothly.
Frowning, he tried again. “Are you not cold?”
“No.” She didn’t blink. “Are you?”
Nay, I am afire with wanting you, he almost tossed back at her.
“Fair lady, I am anything but cold as I believe you know,” he said aloud, matching his words to the directness she favored. “But I am puzzled.”
“Oh?”
