Page 36 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
She closed her eyes with a wave of disbelief. She had offered to sit on his lap. She hadwantedto sit on his lap. God, but his big, strong body made her want to do all manner of inappropriate things. The way he had held her to him in the stables earlier had addled her mind so much that she had spent all morning hovering somewhere out of time, physically in the present, securing window shutters and reinforcing doorways while mentally somewhere else entirely. Her hands were tightening latches and drawing curtains tight while she imagined what it would have been like to peel the linen shirt from his body while he had kissed her throat.
She remembered how he looked without a shirt, of course. The image had been burned into her mind after that first morning, when she had startled him to the point of injury. All that thick, heavy muscle across his chest, the spray of dark hair, and the powerful play of movement beneath his warm skin as he had maneuvered that razor around. Oh, yes. She remembered it very damn well.
His beard had been full and thick that morning, and later that day she had seen him clean shaven, with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. It was a confusing conflict in her belly, which version of him excited her more. She thought of the shape of his lips and how their fullness had surprised her that day, and shivered, knowing that if he heeded her invitation, those lips would be upon her again soon.
It made her legs weak, and she found herself drifting to the edge of the bed, dropping her weight onto it as she stared at the door like an eager puppy, hoping for her master.
God, what would she do with herself if he did not come? Even the suggestion of the mortification she'd feel if he didn't was enough to freeze her in place, the bedspread clenched in her fists. When finally there was a sound of footfalls and the gentlest knock, she thought she might faint dead away from the way relief flooded her, followed by a keen blast of panic. These emotions sent her frozen blood rushing in her veins again all at once, and before she could call out for him to enter, he had already taken the liberty of doing so.
She licked her lips, searching her mind for the appropriate thing to say, the correct thing to do. Should she stand and welcome him to her boudoir? Should she summon him closer? She did not know. She was not certain she could stand just now, even if she wanted to. Every bone in her body felt as though it had caught fire as soon as he appeared.
His nostrils flared, taking in the sight of her perched on the edge of the bed like she was, and he clipped the door behind him, flipping the latch to lock it, the automatic familiarity of a man who had locked that same door many, many times. He shrugged out of his jacket, draping it on the coat rack next to the door, never once taking those dark, sparkling eyes off her.
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, kneading it with her teeth. It was the only motion she found herself capable of at the present moment, for Sheldon Bywater was moving closer. He hadn't been wearing a waistcoat or a cravat, and with his shirtsleeves rolled up as they were beneath his jacket, she could see the powerful strength of his forearms, also dusted in shiny curls of black hair. She managed to raise her gaze, to watch helplessly as he drew nearer, his expression stormy and intent.
She feared that if he asked her for reassurances and confirmations of certainty, that she might falter, and give in to her instincts of skittishness and doubt.
He did not ask. He did not say anything. He met her at the edge of his mattress, cupped his hand behind her neck, and fell onto her mouth with the long-awaited indulgence of a man who has been awaiting something with remarkable patience, and was at long last sweetly sated.
It was exactly what she had wanted. Needed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and eased herself backward as he crawled onto the bed with her, his big fingers pulling her hair loose from its simple braid. Her long skirt was tangled around her knees, her stockings pulling at the heavy wool every time she attempted to shift her posture. She knew it was a silly thing to think of, while finally giving herself over to the embrace of a man she really, trulywanted, and perhaps it was the knowing of how silly it was that made it stick so heavily in her mind.
"My stockings," she breathed against his lips. "Sheldon, my stockings."
He pulled back, a quizzical expression on his face, and dropped his eyes to her legs, sprawled beneath her as she lay on her side.
She pulled the hem of the skirt up, gathering the fabric in her fingers. "Take my stockings off," she blurted urgently, already embarrassed by the request. "They are pulling at my skirt and I ... oh."
The stockings were ruined. That much was certain. What wasn't certain was Tia's conviction that she cared in the least. At her words, Sheldon's eyes had gone dark, his hands moving with swift and impatient efficiency to jerk her stockings away, ripping them from her legs rather than rolling them slowly down from the knee, as they were meant to be used.
He had hold of one of her ankles, and lifted it easily to his lips to press a kiss into the bare skin he had just revealed, sending a shiver through her body that had nothing at all to do with the sudden bite of cool air on her flesh. It was a short-lived flash of cold, replaced immediately by the sliding warmth of his big hands along the curve of her calf and the ticklish spot on the back of her knee.
It was acutely pressing on Tia's mind that she ought to protest now—for that was what women in stories did when being compromised, if only for their own peace of mind and clear consciences later, but she did notwantto protest, and instead found herself pulling him closer to her, arching her back to press her chest into his and sighing softly as he slid his exploring touch higher up her thigh.
His clothes smelled like he did, all pine and smoke and man. It was so easy to be overwhelmed by Sheldon Bywater—not only because he was so very large and heavy, with a powerful frame that overtook her in every possible way—but also the very presence of him, the heat he gave off, the contrasting strength and gentleness in the way he touched her, even the way he breathed her in was intoxicating.
Despite how very much of him there already was, and despite how well he already wielded all the power in this room, she wantedmore. More of him. More of this. She was not certain there could ever be enough.
She rolled onto the flat of her back, urging him atop her, and felt the curve of a wicked smile on his mouth as he obeyed, rucking her bare leg up and around his hip as he braced himself over her, still plundering the wine-sweetened wealth of her lips.
His hips dug into hers, his arousal flush against her, his hands exploring ever higher, until her old woolen skirt was naught but a wreath of fabric bunched about the tops of her thighs while he stroked the soft and unexplored flesh there, making lazy, indulgent, swirling paths of his fingers, each time teasing a little closer to the place she knew he should touch least of all and that she wanted desperately.
She ran her hands down the lines of his broad chest, her fantasies of removing that shirt from him this morning flashing in broken shards in her mind. He did not resist when she tugged it loose from the waistband of his trousers, and simply growled in approval as he assisted her in pulling the entire garment off over his head, leaving his shaggy black hair in disarray.
As tempting as it was to let her eyes slip shut, and to lose herself entirely in the oblivion of sensation, Tia wanted much more keenly to look upon him like this. She reached up before he could lower his weight back upon her to touch him, digging her fingers into the lines of his shoulders and dragging them downward over the soft hair that she had caught sight of that morning, from this bed.
She fancied that she could hear his heart speed as she dragged her fingers over the muscled indents of his chest. She had the most absurd instinct to press her cheek into the center of his chest, to listen for the thrum of his vitality and inhale the scent that emanated from the center of him.
The most intriguing thing was how still he held himself, making no move to stop or instruct her. She had thought she would flounder through this, relying on the guidance of a more experienced lover the first time. With very little to prepare her, save for hushed whispers in the corners of ballrooms and romance stories smuggled into the dormitories at school, she found herself abuzz with equal parts primal instinct and raw curiosity.
Instead he held the reins on his own impulses with what appeared to be a decent amount of restraint, his breaths coming shallow and labored, dark eyes glittering and shaded with something she could not define as he stared down at her, allowing her to explore his body, allowing her to touch these parts of him that were so very, very different from her own form.
It seemed to Tia that his restraint was just as powerful as his natural brute strength. From the way he sucked his breath in as she trailed her curious fingers over the planes of his belly, he very much wanted to do things other than hold perfectly still, things he resisted, for now, for her benefit alone.
As though to test his resolve, she dipped her fingers into the waistband of his trousers, turning her palm upward to slide against the flat and firm flesh of his stomach as she explored beneath the privacy of the fabric. She had seen statues, of course, and drawings, and animals in nature on occasion, but ...oh.
He stopped breathing altogether as she took hold of him, and she thought she very well might have stopped breathing too. She swallowed with some difficulty, testing its weight and size with a wrap of her fingers.
"Tatiana," he said, with no small degree of warning in his tone.
