Page 114 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

In one smooth motion, he lifted her in his arms, then strodeto the bed in four long strides, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.

After setting her down next to the bed, he stepped back, his gaze traveling over her from head to toe and back again. The lustful expression in his eyes, as if he were a starving man faced with a feast of great delicacies, heated her from within.

“Damn, but you’re beautiful.” With one finger, he flicked a ribbon on her nightrail. “Mind if I take this off?”

She swallowed, forcing down the lump in her throat. “Can’t we leave it on?”

He arched a dark brow. “Modest? Not something I anticipated from you. You’re always so sure of yourself.” With movements as sleek as a jungle cat, he came closer and leaned down, whispering in her ear. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Charlotte. Clearly, your body is as beautiful as your face.”

“You haven’t seen me yet.”

A slow sensual smile crept across his lips, his gaze drifting down and snagging on her bodice. “I have an excellent imagination.” He hooked a finger in the neckline of her nightdress. “You’ll be more comfortable without all this material bunching up around you.”

“We can’t wait . . . just a little while?” She hated how her voice trembled. It would only support her early cowardly cowering.

Yet, his gaze softened, and he nodded. “Perhaps you’ll be more comfortable if I lead the way. After all, you’ve already seen me au naturel.” Without removing his gaze from hers, he unfastened the banyan and slipped it from his shoulders.

He turned, giving her a spectacular view of his muscled back, which angled down to a trim waist. Rather than tossing the banyan to the floor as she expected, he folded it neatly and laid it on a chair by the window. The care with which he performed the action tickled the back of her mind, as if she could trust him to be as considerate with her.

When he turned back, he merely stood before her, allowing her to fully appreciate the beauty of his masculine form. During theincidenthe spoke of, she’d averted her eyes so quickly, she’d really only caught a glimpse of him. But at that moment, she drank him in, no doubt the appreciation on her face matching his own when he gazed upon her earlier.

Well-formed, muscled shoulders, arms, chest, and stomach gave testament to a man who appreciated physical activity. A sculptor would take great joy in capturing Simon Beckham. But unlike cold marble statues, her husband was a warm, living, breathing man.

Dark lashes framed incredible blue as he studied her through hooded eyes. “Do you like what you see?”

Gooseflesh rose on her arms from his voice, low and laced with desire. Heat rose to her cheeks. Thank goodness he still had trousers on, keeping her blush to a minimum. She struggled for a retort, an insult if she could manage it, but all that sprung from her lips was, “You appear to be a fine specimen.”

He blinked twice, then threw back his head in laughter. “There’s a compliment buried in there somewhere.” Stepping closer, he lifted her hand, holding it close to his chest, but not placing it directly on his skin. “Perhaps you would like to examine me to confirm your deduction.”

Her fingers trembled as she lowered them to his stomach, but as she touched the hard planes of muscle, he sucked in a breath, and his pectorals twitched.

“Your touch inflames me,” he said, his voice growing more gravelly. The blue of his eyes darkened to a dusky hue.

Power surged through her at his admission. Encouraged, she flattened her palms against him, the thrum of his heart quickening under her fingers. She continued a path up and over his chest muscles, across his shoulders and down his arms, thrilling at each tiny response she drew from him.

“You want control,” he said. “You have it. Feel—and see—what you do to me with your touch alone.” His gaze drifted down to the space between them.

And when hers followed, she saw the evidence he spoke of in the arousal straining at his trousers. A knot formed in her throat, and the heat on her cheeks built to a scorching intensity.

“The question is, do I have the same effect on you?” Light as a feather, he traced a fingertip up her arm, then skimmed the neckline of her nightrail.

Tightness formed in her breasts and low in her belly. Her traitorous skin pebbled in answer.

His lips curled in a self-satisfied smile. “I believe that’s a ‘Yes.’”

She fought her own smile. “You don’t have to be so smug about it. I can’t control what my body does.”

Simon arched a brow at her, his low chuckle rumbling in the quiet air. “That’s typically my argument. But you do have control over what you want to do . . . want me to do.” As he leaned in, his warm breath tickled the sensitive skin of her neck. “Tell me where and how I should touch you. Is there a particular place you enjoy? That feels especially good?”

How could she think when he addled her mind? Words clung to her tongue. If released, they would serve as a confession to how little joy and pleasure she’d known during her life.

Yet, a small voice broke through her foggy brain, urging her to trust him—that he was worthy of her trust. Simon wouldn’t hurt her.

Would he?

She licked her lips. “I don’t know.”

Both of his dark brows lifted as he jerked back, his previously hooded eyes widening at first, then narrowing. “You don’t know what feels good?” A beat passed. “Charlotte, have you never pleasured yourself?”

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