Page 57 of Just Imagine
He remembered Hamilton Woodward’s letter accusing her of seducing his business partner. When Cain had received it, he had no reason not to believe it, but now he knew better. Kit’s claim that she’d punched the bastard was undoubtedly true. If only he were as certain that she was turning aside Parsell’s advances.
He tore his eyes away. “I’m not going to be disobeyed.”
“Then you’d better bark out your orders to someone else.”
“Watch it, Kit. I tanned that rump of yours once before, and it won’t bother me to do it again.”
Instead of backing away, she had the gall to take a step toward him. His hand itched, and he found himself imagining exactly how that backside would feel, bare beneath his palm. Then he imagined sliding his hand around that sweet curve—not to hurt, but to please.
“If you want to see what a knife feels like in your belly, just go ahead and try it, Yankee.”
He almost laughed. He outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds, but the little wildcat still thought she could challenge him.
“You’ve forgotten something,” he said. “You’re my ward. I make the decisions and you do as I say. Is that understood?”
“Oh, it’s understood, all right, Yankee. It’s understood that you’re an arrogant ass! Now get out of my room.”
As she jabbed her finger toward the door, the strap of her chemise fell over her opposite shoulder. The thin fabric caught at the crest of her breast, clung to that sweet peak for a moment, and then dropped, exposing the dark coral tip.
Kit saw him lower his gaze a moment before she felt the currents of cool air tickling her flesh. She looked down and drew in her breath. She snatched the front of her chemise and pulled it back up.
Cain’s eyes turned from slate to pale smoke, and his voice was husky. “I liked it better the other way.”
As quickly as that, the battle between them shifted to new ground.
Her fingers grew clumsy on the fabric of her chemise as he came closer. All her survival instincts urged her to run from the room, but the most she could manage was to turn away.
He came up behind her and traced the curve of her neck with his thumb. “You’re so damned beautiful,” he whispered. He gathered her curls into his hands and gently untangled them from the strap of her chemise.
Her skin prickled. “You shouldn’t . . .”
“I know.”
He leaned down and pushed her hair away. His breath feathered the skin at her collarbone.
“I don’t—I don’t want you to . . .”
He gently bit the soft flesh at the side of her neck. “Liar,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes and let her back rest against his chest. She felt the cool, wet spot on her neck where his tongue had touched her flesh.
His hands moved up over her ribs and then, incredibly, over her breasts. Her skin turned hot and cold at once. She shuddered as he caressed her through her chemise, shuddered at how good it felt and at her insanity in submitting to such an intimacy.
“I’ve wanted to do this ever since you got back,” he whispered.
She made a soft, helpless sound when he slipped his hands inside her dress, inside her chemise . . . and touched her.
Nothing had ever felt as good as those callused palms on her breasts. She arched against him. He brushed the tips and she moaned.
A knock sounded at the door.
She sucked in her breath and jerked away, scrambling to pull up her bodice.
“Who is it?” Cain barked out impatiently.
The door flew back on its hinges.
Sophronia stood on the other side, two pale smudges of alarm over her cheekbones. “What are you doing in her room?”
