The first he understood.
The second he…didn’t.
Kincaid had always enjoyed women. Their gentle voices. Their soft curves. Their silky curls nestled between plump thighs. That enjoyment had led to the loss of his virginity at sixteen when he’d fumbled his way through tupping Betsy Graham in the hayloft above her father’s forge. Not his best performance, but he had always been a quick learner. His past mistresses certainly never had reason to complain. Suffice it to say, Kincaid considered himself to be well versed in passion.
He knew what it felt like.
He knew what to expect.
Yet his attraction to Joanna was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.
Even with Lavinia.
When he and Joanna had kissed, it had been almostcarnalin nature; raw and pulsing, like a carnivore demanding to be fed. A fitting analogy, seeing as he’d snarled like a wolf when her velvety core had clenched, hot and wet, around his fingers.
On a groan, his head fell back and hit the pillow. What the bollocks was he going to do?
Not think about her, he ordered himself fiercely.
If he didn’t think about her, then he wouldn’t want her. If he didn’t want her, then this war between his head and his heart could finally cease.
It was a sound plan. The best his drunken arse could come up with, at any rate. It even worked…until he fell asleep.
And dreamed only of Joanna.
Chapter Twelve
Joanna smelled thescotch before she entered Kincaid’s office. Woodsy with an underlying hint of peat moss, the scent of it filled her nostrils as soon as she stepped into the foyer. Her brow furrowing, she left her cloak and hat on as she made her way to the door. It was partially ajar, and her brisk knock pushed it all the way open to reveal the usual cluttered disorder. As well as Kincaid, only partially clothed, sprawled on the bed in the corner.
With a gasp, she slammed the door shut. The sound struck the silence like a gunshot, and she cringed when she heard the unmistakablethumpof a body striking the floor, followed by a strangled curse.
“Fuck,” Kincaid groaned, his voice muffled by the wood between them. “Sterling, is that you?”
“I’m—I’m afraid not. I am terribly sorry,” Joanna apologized as she hesitantly opened the door. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t realize you were,”—passed out drunk in your office without a shirt on—“indisposed. I can return later, if you’d like.”
“No,” he said, to her immense surprise. “Come in.” Grimacing, he managed to push himself up into a sitting position before he leaned back against the bedrail and covered his face with his hands. “You don’t happen to see a shirt anywhere, do you? And coffee.” Amber eyes shot through with red peeked hopefully at her from between his fingers. “I’d pay a king’s ransom for a cup of coffee.”
Joanna did not see any clothing strewn about, but there was half a cup of coffee on the corner of his desk. “Will this do?” she asked, holding it out to him. “It’s cold. I could make a—”
“It’s fine,” he said, snatching the ceramic mug out of her hand.
She watched, bemused, as Kincaid guzzled the coffee down before staggering to his feet. When he squinted, she immediately guessed what the problem was and began to look for his spectacles. After a brief search, she found the wire-rimmed glasses underneath his pillow.
“Here,” she said. “These should help.”
He accepted the spectacles and slipped them on, then blinked and frowned at her as his gaze refocused. “I…thank you, Miss Thorncroft.” As a ruddy flush began to spread up his neck and into his face, he averted his stare to a spot on the wall several inches above her head. “I apologize that you have to see me like this. It’s inappropriate, and inexcusable. If you’d be so kind as to leave—”
“I am not going anywhere,” she interrupted. This may not have been how she’d planned to begin their day together, but she wasn’t about to let him shoo her away like a pesky fly. For nearly half the night, she’d stayed awake. While Evie slept, her soft snores resonating through the bedroom like the rising and falling of the tide, Joanna’s thoughts had been centered on Kincaid. And what she would do when she saw him in the morning.
Herplanhad been to boldly enter his office, command his attention, and inform him, in no uncertain terms, that they were no longer going to ignore each other or what had happened between them.
No more hiding.
No more pretending.
They needed to put their emotions out in the open, and let what would happen…well, happen.
But she couldn’t make any demands of himnow. It’d be the equivalent of kicking a sad puppy. A sad, miserable puppy that smelled like scotch and looked as if it wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Which meant that if she wanted him to acknowledge the feelings that sheknewexisted between them, she would have to be subtle about it.
