Page 98 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 27
“Behave? Perhaps not just now, with you here.” He combed his fingers through her hair, sweeping damp strands away from her brow. She closed her eyes, sighed.
Then her eyes opened. “Oh no. We will not, sir. You need tending, and that wound would bleed. Out of the tub, and I will bandage it. You will need a fresh shirt—”
“Hush you,” and he drew her closer while he leaned toward her. Foolish it may be, but that irresistible feeling wanted solace and attention. “Come here.”
He touched his nose to hers, tilted, met her lips with his, the kiss beginning gently, mouths easing, testing, strengthening to a chain of kisses. He sank his fingers into the damp thickness of her hair, kneading his fingertips over her head. Shivers ran through him. She moaned, leaned toward him, nearly fell into the water.
He caught her under the arms and pulled her over the side of the tub quickly, plopping her down with a splash that sloshed water over the sides, over the floor, as she cried out. His muscles and his side greatly protested, but warm water had eased and numbed some of the pain. She sank against him when he pulled her into his arms, her bottom nestled nicely against him. He stifled a wince as he kissed her again.
“Not now—”
“But this is convenient, with both of us here.” He tossed her arms around his neck, kissed her again. Something in him simply wanted to prove he was fine, not sorely wounded or hurting, certainly not weak.
Her mouth opened to him, and his need was suddenly so urgent that it was pushing reason aside, passion pouring in to replace sense. He wanted her now and thought she did as well. Not that it made much sense, with the way her garments sloshed about and hampered them in the water, or the way she pushed against him.
“Let me get you bandaged first, and then perhaps—”
“My dear, I am fine. We are fine.” It defied logic, this. His hands slipped through the water, over the soaked fabric, under it, finding skin and the incredible softness of her breasts, his fingertips skimming, finding, ruching her so that she gasped against his lips. She felt exquisite, a wild and beautiful thing. His lips probed, coaxed. The water lapped around them and he pushed the saturated fabric aside as he touched her, as she turned to mold herself against him, murmuring against his mouth, tugging at his lips with hers.
What throbbed through him, demanded and took control. As he bent his head to her breasts she arched, groaning softly, touching him, finding him somehow in the wet mass of swirling fabric. He filled, hardened against her, and when her hand clasped over him, he nearly jumped. Her mouth was sweet against his own as she shifted in his lap, turning. With that turning—that push against his ribs—he uttered a raspy groan.
Nothing could have stopped her faster or drained the sensation out of him more quickly. She straightened, pulled away.
“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry, oh dear God, I am so sorry.” She clambered out of the tub, water sloshing, scrambling over the edge and out. She stripped the soaking outer fabric away, standing only in a dripping chemise. That, he thought, would surely not help ease him now. “Please forgive me.”
“Sorry! For what? I am the one to beg pardon.” He leaned against the tub, one arm resting on the rim, the other hand cupping his side, pressing away the pain. But everything, suddenly, throbbed in his body, thanks to what he had encouraged with his earnest little bride. He was still aroused. “Though I would continue.”
Gasping, Sophie knelt, splashed water at him. He caught her hand. “My God,” he said, touching her cheek, her arm, grazing his thumb over her breast, pearling under the wet shift. “You are so fine to me, lass, I cannot get enough.” He brought her hand to his mouth, sucked her fingers, felt himself surge.
Then he stood, all in rush, pulling her to her feet as he did so. Stepping out of the tub to stand with her, he pulled her against him, flattening her body against his, his core finding that soft, nested, feminine place, and he stirred, deep and quick, felt himself catch molten inside, despite the wet and the chill on his skin.
“Your wound,” she said. “It will open.” She stepped back, pushed at him a little, then grabbed up his plaid, threw it about his shoulders, covering him—he did need that, after all, proud and ready as he was. “One of us must show some sense.”
He looked down to see blood dripping down his side. He palmed the wound again. “Grab the linen, then, and we will see to this,” he said. But once more, he pulled her tightly against him, for her body fit to his like no other ever could, nestled perfectly. He throbbed like a drum. And when she tilted her head just so, his lips fit hers perfectly, too, in a long and melting kiss. He was not sure how much more of this he could bear.
“This is mad. What are we doing?” she whispered against his mouth.
“If you do not know—”
“I know you need bandaging just now,” she said primly.
“I need more than bandaging, woman,” he growled, “now.”
She stepped away. He loved seeing her nudity through the wet shift, and she did not seem to mind him watching her as she moved about preparing the bandaging cloth, opening the jar of salve. The kitchen was warm, the fire cast a glow over her skin, and his gaze moved over her hungrily, yearning for sustenance. The power and grace in her, the simplicity of her beauty at the same time, astonished him.
She snatched up a linen sheet, left to dry after her bath, and wrapped it over her shoulders as she readied the things, even filled the tankard with whisky. Connor stood by, still aching hard for her. She returned.
“Sit. And lift your arms and keep still,” she said. He obeyed, sitting on a bench while she stood by, but he let his gaze go decidedly wicked. She slid him a glance that was coy and lovely and admonishing all at once as she bent to her task.
She tore off a piece of the bandaging cloth, dabbed the wound, and he winced. She handed him the tankard in busy silence, and he swallowed, glad of the drink’s distracting burn. Taking the cup, she drank deeply too, set it down. Then she dabbed the cloth in the whisky and pressed the poultice to his wound.
He hissed in a breath, turned his head at the wild sting of it.
Next, she dabbed ointment over the gash, a soothing mix he was familiar with after years of Murrays tending wounds—almond oil, basil, lavender, with a pungent edge of garlic. Taking a long piece of the cloth, she reached around him to wrap his midsection to encircle him in a thick, snug band. Then she tied and tucked the ends.
“There,” she said. She stood so close that he only wanted to drag her into his arms. “And now you must behave yourself.”
