Page 95 of Ghost of the Ton

She heard him exhale, slowly, then he tugged at the neckline of her gown, lowering it until her shoulders were exposed. When he next placed his hands on her shoulders, she suppressed a gasp at the prick of pleasure at his touch. He squeezed, gently, then ran the tips of his thumbs along her skin, the movement slick with salve, yet the little spikes of friction from his callouses ignited a fire in her belly. Though his touch soothed the tautness in her shoulders, elsewhere in her body, strange, unfathomable tensions began to swell.

An ache sparked inside her center as he continued to rub with circular motions, each time deepening his touch. No novice was he. Unlike Mia’s first attempt at a massage, when Dr. McIver had scolded her timidity and instructed her to press harder than she dared, Hamish took hold of her boldly, with a possessiveness that bordered on indecency.

A faint mewl escaped her lips.

“Do ye take delight at the touch of my hands?”

“Mmm…” she murmured, tilting her head back.

He continued to caress her, each hand making a gentle, sweeping motion, soothing her shoulders, then moving across her collarbone. Then he slid his palms along her throat until his fingers met the neckline of her gown, where her breasts, warm and heavy, seemed to strain against the fabric.

When his fingertips touched the laces at the front of her gown, she caught her breath as the fire in her belly flared. He leaned over her, and strands of his hair tickled the skin of her forehead before he placed a light kiss between her brows.

His fingers stilled against the knot in the laces, and remained there for several heartbeats. Then, with a swell in her soul, she understood.

He was awaiting her consent.

She nodded—an almost imperceptible gesture, but he must have recognized it for what it was. With a delicate touch that belied his huge frame, he unlaced the front of her gown and slid his palms over the soft skin of her breasts. The fire ignited once more as the warmth from the salve penetrated her sensitive skin while the scent of ginger filled the air, mingling with the aroma of rosemary and something else—a deep scent, sharp and sweet, with top notes of pleasure and base notes of wickedness.

He cupped a breast. “Och, lass—with the softest flesh in my hands, and the sweetest scent known to man in my nostrils, mayhap I’ve been transported to heaven.”

Her skin tightened at his voice, which rasped like gravel. Then he ran the tip of his thumb over a nipple, which sent a bolt of fire through her body.

“Oh!” She opened her eyes to see him looking over her, his head framed by a halo of hair that glowed in the firelight like a sunset. His eyes were dark—the pupils dilated so they were almost black.

“Do ye like my hands on ye, lass?”

“Y-yes,” she said, her body responding to his voice as she leaned into his touch. “Oh…” She drew in a lungful of air, the heady perfume thickening and swirling in her mind.

Oh, yes…

He dipped his head and brushed his lips against her cheek. Though she tilted her head up, offering her lips, he merely smiled, and she grimaced in frustration.

“Och, lass, will ye not await yer pleasure with patience?”

Boneless and pliant, she relaxed in the chair, acknowledging his mastery over her body.

“I would have ye give yer consent, lass, for I wouldnae want to—”

“You have it,” she said, the urgency in her body overpowering her mind.

His eyes flared, savage hunger in them.

“Then close yer eyes, lass.”

She obeyed, relishing the heightening of her other senses, the exotic cocktail of aromas in the air, the warmth of the fire on her skin, the heat swelling in her center and…

…and—oh my!—the roughness of the callouses on his hands was exquisite as he swept his palms over her breasts once more, pausing to flick her nipples and chuckling softly at her sharp gasp of pleasure. Then he shifted his palms lower, caressing her belly until his fingertips reached the curls at the juncture of her thighs, where a wicked dampness had begun to form.

Surely he wasn’t going to touch her…there? What purpose would a man have to—

“Oh!” A burst of heat ignited in her center as he slipped his fingers inside her curls. She clamped her legs together, trapping his hand, ashamed to reveal the moisture that pooled in a place so intimate that it must be the very worst of sins to touch.

“Och, lass—did I not ask ye to trust me?” he whispered.

“B-but I—”

“Shh… Trust yer man.”