Chapter 17
“What’s the deal with your tattoos?”
Oh, bugger it all, Christian thought, still trying to catch his breath.Save me from postcoital talkative women.
He and Emily had spent ten minutes giving each other vigorous, completely kinky hand jobs that had ended with both of them coming at the same moment, and now she wanted totalk? About his tattoos, no less?
He reachedto untie the final rope, scooped her into his arms, and hauled them both off the bed. His legs felt rubbery. His stomach quivered from the intensity of his release. And his cock, though spent, still had some life left in it, jutting impudently from his body.
“What the—” Emily began. She didn’t manage more than that before he whisked the coverlet off the bed and cast it to the floor.
Surelythere was a laundry somewhere in the house. The National Trust and the caretakers they employed took the job of maintaining historic residencesveryseriously. Emily and Christian were likely the first people to have slept in the big bed in nearly a century, yet the sheets and bedclothes were fresh. Before they left tomorrow, he would need to be sure he washed the evidence of his spilled desirefrom the quilt and then replace it.
She squealed when he tossed her back onto the bed. Arms and legs akimbo, she bounced in the most delicious way. He joined her a second later, pulling her onto his chest and tucking her head firmly beneath his chin.
When she tried to press up to look at him, he slapped her ass and growled, “Be still.”
He didn’t need to look at her to know she wastrying to decide whether to take him to task or shiver with delight. Eventually, after a few seconds, she settled on the latter.
He smiled. One thing had become obvious. Unlike in other areas of her life, when it came to the bedroom, Emily didn’t mind taking orders. In fact, she seemed tofancyit.
Closing his eyes, he replayed how well she’d followed his breathless instructions on howto touch him, how to spread his pre-ejaculate over his swollen head and then stroke. Soft and slow at first. Hard and fast near the end. Her palm had been so silky and hot and eager to please.
We’re a brilliant match, he realized with no small measure of satisfaction.
Instead of scaring her, his need for bondage turned her on. And she was so bossy in her everyday life, it was no wondershe didn’t mind letting go and allowing someone else to take charge when it came to sex.
Jolly good thing too, since he planned to tie her up and boss her around in the bedroom for the next fifty to sixty years. Quite soon she would realize that their perfectly paired sexual appetites could translate to a perfect pairing for life. And that bit about her not being able to fall in love?Rubbish.Slowly, day by day, stolen moment by stolen moment, he planned to prove it to her.
A sense of contentment wrapped around him. That is until she cleared her throat and said, “So, about your tattoos…”
The last thing he wanted was memories of his dark past invading this bright, glorious moment. But the woman seemed to have latched on to the subject, and he knew how tenacious she could beonce she became fixated on something. A bloody dog with a bone, that’s what she was.
“What about them?” he asked reluctantly.
“Is there a story behind them?”
“Why do you ask?”
“They seem out of character. You’re kinda preppy.”
He snorted.Guttersnipe, little bastard, trash…he’d been called loads of things in his life. He’d never been calledpreppy.
“And your tattoos arethe veryoppositeof preppy,” she went on. “Plus, considering how many hours and how much pain you must’ve endured to get them, well…” She rolled her hand before letting it rest over his heart. Could she feel how the silly organ picked up its pace, as if trying to get her attention? “It’s weird you don’t want to show them off. In fact, you do your best to hide them.”
“You’re certain the CIAdidn’t train you to be a field agent?” He traced a slow circle on her naked hip. Her skin was so impossibly soft. Was there another woman on the planet with skin as soft as hers?
“No.” He could hear the frown in her voice. “Why?”
“Because you’re vexingly observant and irritatingly perceptive.”
This time, when she tried to push up on her elbow, he allowed it. Her dark eyes were narrowedin affront. “Irritating?”
“What?” He lifted an eyebrow. “You thought because we’re good at this”—he motioned between them—“that I’d stop finding you irritating? I willalwaysfind you irritating, darling. Delightfully so. You push my buttons. I fancy it. Keep doing it. And admit it, I irritate you too.”
“Well, I certainly find you annoying rightnow,” she huffed. “Because you’re ChristianWatsoning your way around the subject again.”
“Must I repeatedly remind you not to use my name as a verb?”
