Page 29 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“There are ways beyond mere brute strength.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
His gaze shot immediately downward, and she realized belatedly that her arms pushed her breasts up and against the thin fabric of her nightclothes. It hadn’t been deliberate, but it did prove her point because he seemed fascinated by the sight. She had rather dark nipples, and the cotton nightgown barely veiled them.
The sound he made was deep and uncivilized and wildly thrilling.
Shedidaffect him.
He ripped his gaze from her breasts, now staring at the bed as if it was a mythical beast capable of devouring men whole. Or perhaps he felt that way abouther.
She exhaled. “I’m sorry that we cannot remove the bath. There’s nothing to be done about it. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so do as you see best. But I can assure you, despite the spectacle you witnessed moments ago, I am not some libidinous virago incapable of controlling her baser impulses.”
A minute passed, and then another.
“As you like.” He gave a clipped nod. With economical movement, he pulled off his jacket, then removed his boots before setting them side by side at the foot of the bed. His fingers made short work of the buttons of his waistcoat, which he hung on a peg by the door. He hesitated, then removed his shirt, which he also hung on the peg, before turning back to face her.
Beatrice sucked in a breath. God above, but he was gorgeously fashioned. Whatever he did to keep himself in such excellent physical condition was marvelously effective. Wide shoulders, generously muscled arms, and a sculpted chest adorned with reddish-gold hair. There was no spare flesh on him anywhere—she’d never before seen anyone with such a taut, ridged abdomen, nor had she seen on a living man the defined lines that angled along past his waist and vanished beneath the waistband of his trousers, which hung low on his hips.
One long line, the thickness of a finger, bisected his chest, and a round, raised spot marked the top of his left shoulder. Scars. Evidence that he had been to war and had survived.
“Ma’am.”
She blinked, realizing that she stared at him just like the libidinous virago she’d claimed not to be.
“I’ll just...” She clambered into bed, scooting over as far as she could. After pulling the covers up to her collarbone, she removed her night rail and hung it from the bed post. She turned over onto her side so that she faced the wall, a deliberate movement so that the major could finish undressing without her gaping at him.
The trouble with not watching him remove the remainder of his clothing was that she relied on her imagination to picture him unbuttoning his breeches and stepping out of them so that he wore nothing but his smallclothes.
It was terribly easy to picture him in thin drawers—what his thighs looked like beneath the linen, and his arse, and his cock.
“Are you well, ma’am?”
“Pardon?”
“You groaned.”
Had she made that noise aloud? “Merely tired. Please put out the candle before you get into bed.” The bed they would share in a moment. Her in a wispy nightgown, and him only in drawers, with hardly any fabric separating their bare skin. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a grand idea, after all.
“Aye,” he said gruffly, before adding, “ma’am.”
It was a calculated use of the term, she understoodthat much. Because it created necessary distance and formality, which was badly needed after he’d walked in on her pleasuring herself, and they’d also gawked at each other’s partially dressed bodies.
Hedidhave a luscious body, and she could easily picture herself running her tongue down his flat stomach and going lower and lower and...
She jammed her eyes shut, trying to call to mind soggy stockings, and cold mashed potatoes, and any number of other unpleasant things.
He blew out a breath, and the room was suddenly dark. Perhaps she was safe now that she didn’t have to look at him any longer. When she opened her eyes, however, she saw it was notentirelydark, with the moon shining through the window. It was bright enough for her to see that indeed, his drawers barely offered concealment—and revealed that, as he noiselessly crossed the room toward the bed, his cock was half-hard, as if he was equally affected by her presence as she was by his.
Pretend like there’s a drop of water that snuck underneath your sleeve cuff and it’s running down your wrist to your elbow.
That was better. Nothing was more irritating and less arousing than that lone bead of water.
The bed shifted, squeaking slightly, as he lowered himself down onto the mattress. She held herself still as he moved into a sleeping position. Though he wasa lean man, he was surprisingly heavy, and she fought to keep from rolling toward him.
His calf brushed hers. It was lightly dusted with hair, and each of those hairs shot lightning through her.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Oh, I barely felt anything,” she said breezily. She feigned a yawn. “What an enervating day. I can barely stay awake.”
