I polish off a slice of butter cake, my appetite somewhat returned, as dinner comes to an end.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
“I’ve changed my mind,” I declare boldly as I whip open the door to Lachlan’s bedchamber later that night. He’s seated on his sofa, legs spread, polishing his sword.
Not a euphemism, much to my disappointment.
His hand stills above a small pot of wax as he glances up at me through those adorable eyeglasses. He doesn’t even ask what I’ve changed my mindabout. The man is that confident. It’s bloody infuriating.
And more than a bit of a turn-on.
Then again, if I looked like him, I’d probably assume everyone who rejected my advances would eventually regret it and come to their senses.
“Close the door.”
The low rumble of his voice trails ghostly fingers up my thighs. He folds his polishing cloth, seals the wax, then rises to place his sword in its sheath.
He’s changed since dinner, now wearing a white shirt tucked into a pair of soft gray trousers. The shirt hangs open, the sleeves pushed to his elbows and exposing forearms that I have an urgent, physical need to feel pinning me down. To what surface, I couldn’t possibly care less. He plucks off his glasses, folds them into their case, then sits back down and spreads his legs wide. Taking up as much space as he pleases.
“Come over here.”
It’s not a request.
But he makes no move to fetch me as I hesitate, wrapping and unwrapping the sash of my dressing gown around my palm.
I was so much more sure of this decision before I opened the door, but now that I’m in his room and he’s right there looking sodreadfullyhandsome and like he’s been waiting for me and his loose trousers are falling in just the right way to emphasize what is clearly a very generous endowment and, oh heavens what if I mess this up or do something awkward or put my tongue in the wrong place, and he can tell that I have not done this in months and even when I did, I am not quite certain that George knew exactly what to do with my body, so?—
“Charlotte.” He’s patient. Steady. “Do as I say.”
My mind stills and my body calms. He’s good at this. At knowing what a person needs. At knowing whatIneed. Crystal-clear instructions to cut through the persistent chatter.
I pad over to the sofa and sink down next to him. He’s so much bigger over here. A hulking mountain of golden flesh and tousled auburn hair. Andhot. So hot. Heat roils off him in waves, along with that heady woodsmoke and fig scent.
He’s just so vividly …present.
And though I’ve been close to him before, touched him before, this feels monumentally different.
He angles his body toward me, scooting closer, and rests a hand on his broad thigh. He snakes his other arm along the backof the sofa behind my head. My hair is pinned up, so his biceps presses against the back of my neck. I lean into it. Once again, I’m cocooned, cradled, but not caged. I could get up and walk away at any moment.
I have never wanted to do anything less.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks, gesturing toward a bronze flagon and two goblets on the side table. “Need something to silence those voices in your head?”
I burble a laugh. “You’re the loudest voice in my head lately.”
The loudest, perhaps.A cool caress upon my overheated brain.But unfortunately not the most persuasive.
He lifts my chin with the callused pad of his finger. “Tell me about your experience.”
“I’m not a virgin,” I blurt.
“I know.” Another soft smile. And the dimple. God help me. “George, was it?” He says the name with barely concealed distaste and a hint of jealousy that stokes my excitement.
“Yes,” I whisper. “But there were plenty of others before him.”
Lucky bastards, Lachlan purrs into my mind as he pinches a loose strand of my hair, his eyes roving over my face. Maybe he means it, or maybe he’s trying to assuage my nerves. Either way, a drop of my earlier confidence returns. Enough that I place my hand upon the leg he’s drawn up between us. His thighs are as solid as stone. He twitches at the contact, but moves in closer. As if my touch is a welcome surprise.
