Brig didn’t really look angry. He looked slightly drunk. Nathan knew from experience that the latter was more dangerous. “Shouldn’t you be going? I do have a guest, you know.”
“Might as well,” he said, sighing. He gulped back his drink, set the tumbler on the floor, and headed for the door. “Maybe I’ll find someone for myself tonight.”
“Surprised you haven’t already. That’s not like you, Brig.”
“I’m looking for a lady, not a whore.”
“What about Madeline Chadwick?”
“As I said, I’m looking for a lady.”
Nathan thought about Brig’s parting remark for a long moment before he got up and locked the door and turned back the lights. He reasoned he could still get a few good hours of sleep before taking Lydia home. It would probably take at least that long for her to come out of her stupor. Padding barefoot to the bedroom, he found Lydia lying on her back, snoring softly. He turned her on her side, moved her toward the middle of the bed, and got in beside her.
He almost came out of his skin when he realized she wasn’t wearing anything but a thin cotton shift.
“Lydia?” He said her name softly, on an inquiring note. When she didn’t answer, he nudged her shoulder with his fingertips. She didn’t respond. He touched her again, just to make certain she was sleeping. Or rather that was the excuse he put forth when a gremlin thought told him he’d never touched skin as smooth as Lydia’s. “Are you awake?”
He waited for a full minute, listening to the cadence of her breathing and wondering if she’d heard any part of his conversation with Brig while she’d been undressing. The very idea made his insides curl in a hundred tiny knots. To have come so far only to lose everything because of Brig’s untimely visit could have easily moved Nathan to murder. He’d killed before. He could do it again.
With that thought in mind, Nathan fell into a sleep many times more troubled than Lydia’s.
His hand wason her breast. The full, smooth curve of it filled his palm and his thumb passed back and forth across the nipple. Once. Twice. Again. Beneath his calloused thumb a bud appeared. He touched it, teased it. Her breast was fuller now, harder and warmer. His fingers trailed along the underside curve to her heartbeat, rested there a moment, then moved to her other breast and stroked her skin, brushing her nipple with his knuckles.
Her hand was at the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers traced the edge, dipping just beneath the material at her whim. His skin was smooth here, his flat belly hard. His flesh would retract suddenly in anticipation of her touch.
Without a word passing between them, they inched closer, moving toward the middle of the bed. The hem of her cotton shift was twisted around her hips, pushed there by her movement and the movement of his hands. He caressed the outside of her thigh from knee to hip. His palm traveled across her skin in long, sweeping strokes, becoming slightly more urgent with its pressure and heat on each successive stroke.
Frustrated by the barrier of his trousers, her fingers slid upward, spreading out as they moved up the center of his chest. His flesh changed under her touch and the accident of rubbing his right nipple was then deliberately repeated on his left. Her hand moved along his ribs to the underside of his arm. From there it slid to his elbow and then to his shoulder. Trailing along his collarbone, her fingers slipped around his neck and toyed with the ends of his dark hair, tugging and ruffling, raising prickles at his nape and sending an excited shiver down the length of his spine.
His palm rested briefly on her hipbone, covering her, learning the shape of her body in the curve of his hand. His fingers fell lower, between her thighs now, and nested intimately in the warm and humid contours of her body. Gradually there was movement. First him, then her. He stroked. She responded. There was a sound at the back of his throat that could be taken as encouragement. Her sigh was acceptance.
Her knee was raised, and slid between his thighs. His leg covered the bare length of hers, and when her exploring hand reached his waist again, he took her wrist and dragged it lower until she was cupping the fullness of his sex. He pressed his body against her so there was the friction of his trousers and her palm as she held him.
Their legs tangled as they moved in unison, she on her back, he nearly on top of her. His mouth sought hers, capturing and silencing the small, agitated moan that had come to her lips. There was no nuance in the kiss. No sipping or delicacy of desiring. The kissing had been left too late for the sweetness of budding passion.
Their mouths were hungry. Their tongues entwined in earnest battle and they shared a single breath. They each pressed their advantage, greedy for pleasure. They took from each other. It was more by accident than design that they gave anything in return.
The pressure of his mouth kept hers open. His tongue swept along the sensitive line of her upper lip, touched the even ridges of her teeth. She drew him to her, unsatisfied with anything except the deepest of his kisses and the hardness of his passion.
It was the gasp they shared, the harsh sound of it when they drew back for breath, that brought them abruptly awake.
For a moment they simply stared.
“Oh, my God.” Nathan fairly leapt away from Lydia. He rolled to the edge of the bed, taking some of the covers with him as he jumped up. He stumbled on the puddle of blankets at his feet, kicked them away angrily, and grabbed his snowy white evening shirt. He put it on inside out, jamming his arms into the sleeves with such force that he rent one of the seams.
The drapes were open. Lightning flashed once, illuminating Lydia’s stricken features. It began to storm in earnest, and the sound of rain against the windows was as loud as marbles hitting glass. Nathan lit a bedside lamp and yanked at the drapes’ tiebacks, letting them fall.
Lydia was sitting with her back against the walnut headboard, her knees drawn up to her chest and her shift covering her like a tent. She was staring at the far wall as if the flicker of light and shadow from the bedside lamp fascinated her.
Nathan studied Lydia’s closed posture, the unyielding set of her mouth and the vacant expression in her dark eyes. Most of her hair had fallen behind her back, but a few sable strands touched her cheek and stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of her complexion.
“I want to go home now,” she said dully.
He found his vest and consulted his pocket watch. It was nearly four o’clock. “There’s still time,” he said. “We should talk.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Hunter. I think—”
“Nathan,” he said.
