He heard her little intake of breath, watched a blush rise from her breasts to her cheeks. She lifted her gaze to his again, a look of confusion on her face, and shook her head. “But ’tis no’ like that for women.”
He touched the cold, wet cloth to the valley between her breasts, allowed his knuckles to graze one of her nipples, felt her heart skip beneath his palm. “It can be.”
She shivered. But fear lingered in her eyes. Her hands were fisted at her sides, her body tense, proof she was still forcing herself, still fighting, still afraid.
He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. She’d been terrified of him since the first moment she’d seen him, and that was his own damned fault. Only when she’d drugged him and tied him to her bed—
The memory stopped him, gave him pause.
What would she do now if he gave up control, if he put that same power in her hands?
He dropped the cloth in the water. Guided by instinct, he brushed aside any unease about his scars, his lingering memories of Lyda. He slowly loosed the ties of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and dropped it on the floor. Then he took up the cloth, pressed it dripping wet to his chest, gently placed her hand atop it.
She gaped at him, her eyes wide with surprise, and he saw her pupils dilate.
“I’m burning up, Bethie. Put out the fire.”
Bethie could not breathe, could barely think, not with him watching her through those dark eyes, not with his skin so hot beneath the cloth. She slid the linen slowly over the hard planes of his chest, over his scars, over the wine-colored silk of his nipples. Then she moved lower, explored the ridges of his belly, felt his muscles jerk against her touch, saw the demanding bulge straining against his buckskin breeches.
Tendrils of panic snaked into her throat.
She swallowed them.
For as nervous as it made her to see such clear evidence of his physical need, she wanted him more than she ever had, and some part of her thrilled to know her touch affected him just as much as his did her. Before she realized what she was doing, she let the cloth fall to the floor at their feet and caressed him with her bare hands, hungry for the feel of him.
But rather than sating her need, each moment she touched him only made her want him more. His body was so different from hers, so hard, so strong. She fanned her fingers across the mat of dark curls on his chest, let her fingertips trace the curls where they trickled in a line down his belly and disappeared beneath his breeches.
“Untie them.” His voice was tight, restrained, and she could tell he was holding back. “I want you to see me, to see what you do to me, to know that, no matter what I feel, I won’t hurt you.”
Even as he spoke the words, she knew some part of her wanted to do this. She remembered that day by the river when she had watched him bathe, remembered the shock she’d felt seeing that part of him—her fear, her fascination, her body’s reaction.
She reached for the ties of his breeches with trembling hands, felt his strong hands close reassuringly over hers to help her. And then it was done. He guided her hands beneath the skin-warmed leather, over his hips, over the muscled roundness of his buttocks, over his corded thighs, as he peeled the leather away from his skin and let it slip to the floor.
His sex sprang free, stood rigid against his belly, rising thick and hard from a nest of dark curls. Beneath, his stones hung, full and heavy.
Something clenched deep in her belly. Heat seemed to spread from her womb, turned to liquid between her thighs. She felt herself falter.
“The sight of me frightens you.”
She said the first thing that came into her mind. “Now I know why it hurts.”
He cupped her bare shoulders, ran his hands down the length of her arms, took her hands in his. “It should never hurt, Bethie. When a man enters a woman’s body, it should bring her as much pleasure as it brings him.”
His words made her light-headed. She wanted to believe him. Sheneededto believe him. But she’d lived with Andrew for four years, had lain beneath him, and had hated every moment of it. And before that...
But this was Nicholas, not Andrew.NotRichard.
Nicholas made her feel things she’d never felt before.
“Nicholas, I...” How could she explain this jumble of feelings inside her? How could she make him understand?
Before she found the words, he bent down and brushed his lips lightly over hers.
That simple touch, light as the sweep of a butterfly’s wings, made the heat inside her explode.
With a whimper, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him as his mouth claimed hers in a melting kiss. Sensation overwhelmed her. The sweet rasp of his damp chest hair against her nipples. The thrust of his tongue deep in her mouth. The caress of his hands as they moved over her hot skin.
And then he stopped, releasing her. He turned and strode with a panther’s grace to the bed.
