Page 119 of Scandalous

“No, you do not look as if you lack strength,” she admitted, sitting up and deftly tucking her knees beneath her before reaching out to wrap her hand around him, the action ripping the breath from his chest. She slid her hand up his shaft, and he closed his eyes. Her touch was inexpert, but the effect was like nothing he’d ever experienced.

“Mmm,” he murmured, thrusting into her tight grasp. “That feels so good, Sarah.”

The amount of stroking it took to bring him to an incredibly powerful climax would have been embarrassing if it hadn’t felt so damn good.

“My God!” He collapsed on the bed beside her, breathing raggedly for several minutes before opening his eyes.

“That was wonderful, Martín.” She was gazing at him as though he were some kind of magician because he had spent himself in her hand.

He laughed weakly. “I’ll wager it was even better for me.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It has been agonizing knowing I have been the one having all the pleasure.”

“Surely not all the pleasure?” he challenged, recalling the sensation of burying himself deep within her. The flush that crept up her neck told him she knew what he meant.

“Perhaps not all. Now then,” she said, becoming businesslike. “You sit here, and I will bring something to sustain you.” She sprang off the bed before he could stop her and began to bustle around his small cabin. She placed some food on a plate and felt the coffee pot. “Merely warm,” she muttered.

“Ring for another.” He turned onto his side and propped his head in his hand.

She looked at him with eyes that seemed to devour him. “No. I cannot bear that you should need to put on your robe.”

He laughed. Clearly she did not recall the first time he’d had her in his bed, when the meddlesome Daniels had interrupted his pleasure.

She handed him a cup of lukewarm coffee and sat on the bed beside him. “Why are you frowning?”

He plucked at her dress. “I hate that you have covered your magnificent body.”

Her cheeks darkened. “Here, eat.” She pushed a piece of cheese between his lips. Martín chewed and swallowed, his eyes never leaving hers.

“What? Are you tired of me already? Hoping to choke me?”

“I could never tire of you, Martín.”

The fierceness of her words caused him to look away.

“I shouldn’t make such outrageous claims, mademoiselle.”

“Martín.”

He turned back to her. Her brown eyes were soft and dark. “I would not give myself to you if I did not mean it to be forever. I love you. I don’t care if you don’t love me—it is enough that you want to be with me, that you . . . desire me. And if you tire of me—” She shrugged. “Well, I will deal with that if it happens. I give myself to you with no expectations other than we enjoy each other.”

Why did it feel like looking over a steep, dangerous cliff even to contemplate uttering three small words? When had he become so craven?

“I will never tire of you.” His voice was so thick with emotion he could hardly recognize himself. “Dieu aide moi!” He grasped her shoulders. “I love you, Sarah.” He spoke the words quickly, eager to get them out now that he’d made the decision. “Do you hear me? I love you.” The dazed, hungry expression on her face sent a wave of crippling relief through his body. “I will make you my wife at the first opportunity. Until that time, I will not let you out of my sight.”

She smiled at his harsh words, and he looked away, unable to hold her loving gaze for very long.

“We will marry immediately after we arrive in Paris,” he said. “I shall have gowns made for you by the best dressmaker in the city.” He imagined her swathed in the finest silk. And then he imagined stripping such gowns off her body.

“I should like to see Paris one day.”

“Eh?” he asked absently, her choice of words attracting his attention. He squinted, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I do not.”

“Because I do.”