Page 82 of The Soldier
“That water has to be cold. Wouldn’t you like some hot from the kitchen?”
“It will serve,” he said, starting on his face, neck, and arms. He paused to pour a measure into the pot kept on the swing in the hearth and shifted it over the fire. “We can warm some up for you.” He turned his attention to his chest, his arms, his torso, each part methodically attended to before he shrugged into his dressing gown in exact repetition of his nightly routine. He did not get into clean sheets unless he’d washed.
“Care to borrow?” he said, smiling slightly as he held out his toothbrush. She nodded, accepting the loan. When she came out from behind the privacy screen, St. Just was holding his hairbrush.
“I’m more than willing to finish your hair for you. I think you were about ready to start on the second side?” She been on stroke number eighty-seven, but he didn’t feel a need to reveal just how closely he’d been watching her.
And she had been watching him, her gaze grave and her perusal silent and thorough. She didn’t answer him immediately but reached out and fingered his dressing gown—not his skin.
“Second thoughts?” he asked, trapping her fingers in his own.
“Not that.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “Will you be my lady’s maid?”
Good, he thought on a rush of relief and gratitude. He wanted hours and hours with her, he wanted every depth and manner of intimacy he could cadge from her, and being her lady’s maid suited him perfectly.
“Turn around, my lady.” He smiled down at her. “Though I cannot promise my services will be rendered with any particular speed.”
“We are in no hurry,” she said, giving him her back. “None at all.” He started at her nape, letting her feel his fingers on the hooks holding her dress closed. But, ah, then it wasn’t his fingers at all, but his mouth. For each hook undone, he brushed a kiss to her skin, down the length of her spine, one soft, sweet imprint of his lips at a time. He ended up kneeling behind her, his cheek pillowed on the soft swell of her derriere.
He rose, her dress hanging open down her back, and stood so the warm press of his erection would be starkly obvious against her lower spine.
“I want you,” he whispered, setting his lips against the turn of her neck. “I always will.”
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against him as he slid one shoulder of her dress down her arm. She shivered, but his response was to brush the other shoulder of her gown down to trap her arms at the elbows. He held her, one arm around her waist, pinning her back against him while his free hand went plundering.
He inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly as he slid both hands up to turn her by the shoulders. He held her gaze while his hands went to the ties of her chemise, and when she would have raised her hands to hurry the task, he trapped them in his, kissed each palm in turn, then set her hands at her sides.
“Let me,” he murmured. His progress was slow, and all the while he looked at her. Looked at each inch of flesh he was exposing, watched the rise and fall of her breathing, noted the flush spreading across her features. Still, he would not hasten his hands. When she stood naked in the pool of her dress and chemise, he stepped back, and as if he were escorting her onto the dance floor, lifted her hand so she could step free.
Kiss me, her eyes silently begged.Kiss me, and for God’s sake let me touch you.
He scooped her up and laid her on the bed in one fluid motion, then stood beside the bed, gazing down at her.
“I want the night, Emmie. Not an hour, not the next little while. I want this night with you.” She nodded but said nothing as he laid his dressing gown across the foot of the bed and stretched out on his side near her but not touching.
“It’s trite”—he smiled faintly as his gaze traveled over her—“but you are so beautiful, Emmie Farnum. I could almost spend this time getting drunk on just the look of you here in my bed.”
“And you,” she said, reaching over to trail her fingers along his jaw. “I love looking at you, and not just naked in your bed. I love to watch you ride, to see you with Winnie, to watch you bantering with your brother. I’ve spied on you when you build your stone walls and work with your horses. You’re beautiful to me.”
He closed his eyes, his smile becoming a wistful quirk of his mouth. She raised herself up to press her lips to his.
“I am dying for the taste of you,” she murmured, settling back. “The feel of you, the scent of you.”
“Ah, Emmie.” He curled down to bury his face against her neck. He’d planned to take eternities just stroking and caressing and touching her all over, so her contours and hollows would all be his to recall. He saw then he wasn’t going to be able to hold to that course. She wasn’t going to allow it.
He shifted his body over hers and heard her sigh of pleasure.
“Better,” she murmured, swirling her tongue against his shoulder. “A little better.”
He held still while she tasted him, closed his eyes and focused on the soft eddy of her tongue against his flesh. She moved on to his neck, his throat, the underside of his chin, silently asking him for his mouth. Asking, not begging.
“Soon,” he whispered, “soon, my love.” He cruised his lips over her forehead and eyebrows, inhaling the fragrance of her hair, letting her have just enough of his weight so his erection throbbed against her mons.
He captured her mouth, teasing her lips with his own, tasting, pausing, and savoring, then giving her a little more. She opened for him immediately, pleasing him with the feel of her hands sweeping over his back, pulling him into her body. Her legs wrapped around his hips, hugging him so she could rock up into him in a slow, insistent rhythm.
“St. Just.” She drew back enough to evade his kiss. “Not slow, please. Not this time.”
“Not slow,” he assured her, “but not rushed, either. Trust me, Emmie. You’ll have your pleasures.” He drew a hand down her side. “I promise.”
