A hint of mutiny entered Evie’s expression.
“As my behavior was unbecoming, I will apologize to Lady Vernon,” she said stiffly. “However, I am not wrong about her, James. Her designs upon you are more than political. A wife knows these things.”
It was small of him to enjoy Evie’s jealousy. He would chastise himself later. For now, he allowed himself to take secret delight in her possessiveness—in the revelation that it was an abundance, rather than a lack of, feeling that drove her actions. While they still had problems to work through, he could fix them knowing that he was not alone in this marriage. Evie was as invested in their relationship as he was; he mattered to her. Mattered so much, in fact, that she’d boldly staked her claim.
He understood her reaction, for he’d never been one for sharing. If the situations were reversed, he might have acted as impetuously as she had. And probably with a great deal of violence.
He caressed her cheek. “You have nothing to worry about, trust me.”
“I do trust you. But Lady Vernon had better beware if she tries to take what is mine.”
Evie huffed, a dangerous sparkle in her eyes. Only she could make jealousy look adorable, and he couldn’t resist the lure of her pout. He kissed her, and her sweetness unleashed his hunger. She pressed against him, soft and yielding and needy. She moaned, fisting his lapels as he deepened their connection. The wet, hot mating of their mouths set off a fever in his blood. A condition for which there was only one cure.
My wife. My Evie. Always mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Buttons went flying. Fabric tore.
Finally, Evie managed to get James’s waistcoat off.
In those same breathless moments, he’d managed to strip her down to her chemise. She moaned as he fisted a hand in her hair, yanking her head back so that he could ravage her mouth. His roughness thrilled her and stoked the wildness in her blood. Tonight, in this moment, there was no need to hide herself or her desire. There was only the brilliant truth that even the darkest secret couldn’t dim.
He was hers, and she was his. It was as simple and complicated as that.
When his teeth grazed her neck, her knees wobbled.
He caught her, carrying her to the bed. Lying on the mattress, she gazed at him with open adoration while he stripped off his shirt. His brawny shoulders gleamed in the firelight, his chest a wall of muscle dusted with hair. The ridges of his torso flexed as he bent to remove his shoes. His hands went to the waistband of his trousers, unfastening them and pushing the fabric past his lean hips. Her breath caught when his manhood sprang free.
By the blooms, he was ready. His cock hung thick and heavy between his carved thighs. She saw the smear of wetness on the broad tip and felt an answering trickle between her own legs. Then he was looming over her, his hair like polished bronze and eyes gleaming like moonlight on a stormy sea. A wave of yearning crashed over her. What had she done to deserve such a fellow?
“My bright-eyed god,” she said without thinking.
He cocked his head. “Pardon?”
Since her new policy was honesty whenever possible, she decided to confess.
“You have, um, always reminded me of Apollo.” At his blank look, she said, “You know…the Greek god of the sun?”
“I know who Apollo is.” He drew his brows together. “The statues of him always make him look like a milk-fed youth who never lifted anything heavier than his own lyre.”
At his appalled response, she giggled.
“He is also the golden boy,” she said, smiling. “Admired by all, he establishes harmony and order. He is lofty in his ideals, perfect and untouchable.”
“First off, I am no boy. Secondly, I have plenty of flaws. And thirdly…”
He planted his hands beside her shoulders. The heat emanating from his disciplined form electrified the space between them, and her nipples reacted, tightening and throbbing until they poked visibly against her chemise.
“I am definitely touchable.” Sensual invitation gleamed in his gaze. “Care to see for yourself?”
She didn’t need to be asked twice. Reaching up, she ran covetous hands over his satiny shoulders and down the long, sculpted muscles of his back. She loved the feel of him, hard and warm, the contrast of his smooth skin with the virile scratch of hair. When she scraped her fingernails over his flat nipples, his pupils flared. Emboldened, she slid her palms down his taut abdomen, loving how he quivered at her touch. She traced the arcs of muscle from his hip bones to his groin, then hesitated, recalling his rejection when she’d last touched him here.
“Don’t stop, sunflower,” he said huskily. “I want your hands on my cock.”
Merciful petals.
His wicked permission caused a flutter between her thighs. She reached for his shaft, curling her fingers around its substantial girth. He throbbed and strained against her fist. Her eyes locked with his, she pumped him slowly, firmly, adding that squeeze at the tip that she knew he liked. He groaned, his approval slickening her palm.
