Page 61 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
‘Maud was right about the bath. Sitting in wet clothes isn’t very comfortable.’
‘And then straight to bed?’ Lance cocked an eyebrow.
‘Yes.’ Just that word made her blush, for she intended saying it to everything that came next.
Going through to the bathroom, she bent over the large enamel bath, running the water extra hot, so the room filled with steam. He followed, easing off his jacket as she unfastened hers, wincing as he tugged down the sleeves.
‘You’re hurt?’
Of course he was!
‘Not so badly that I’m walking out of this room.’ He smiled again, making her catch her breath.
She unbuttoned her skirt, stepping out of layers of damp silk.
Standing behind, he helped with the buttons of her shirtwaister and the corset Lucrezia had loose-laced for her that morning.
Lucrezia.
Cecile’s heart ached at the summoning of her memory. Had she died believing Cecile thought her culpable, or blameless? Whichever was the case, it hadn’t stopped her from coming to Cecile’s aid, defending her from Serpico. Without Lucrezia’s intervention, Cecile had no doubt she’d have been tossed to her death.
She had to live for both of them now, as fearlessly as she could.
Cecile rested her head back against Lance’s chest as he kissed down her neck, nuzzling the indent of her bare shoulder. His hands cupped her breasts through her flimsy camisole.
He was gentle at first, but she sensed his tension—taut male energy and hands caressing more possessively, kneading her softness. Did he feel how her heart was hammering?
Twisting about, she shed her petticoats and pushed at the straps of her lawn cotton camisole, but it clung wet, like a second skin.
Lance’s eyes had grown darker. Now, he kneeled, his arms wrapping about her waist, his kisses claiming the curve of her girlish bosom.
His mouth and tongue were warm, even through the damp fabric. She felt the tug of his teeth, her nipple taken, sending desire deep to where she touched herself, late at night, thinking of him.
She longed for him to kiss every part of her body, to caress, to claim—but not through her clothes. She wanted to stand before him naked, and give him everything.
She continued to peel off her underthings: her camisole stripped over her head, her bloomers untied, then pared back from her bottom and thighs, until she kicked them away.
Last of all, she peeled down her stockings.
The way he watched made her head swim—his gaze upon her breasts, her belly, the length of her legs, and the golden thatch covering her most intimate place.
‘Cecile.’ He uttered her name reverently. On his knees, she was reminded of the supplicants she’d seen praying in the cathedrals of Milan and Rome, worshipping at the feet of the Holy Mother.
She was no Mary, no saint; though she was a virgin still.
He spoke her name again, and his voice—raw with need, yet filled with awe—made her shiver.
‘You’re cold.’ He stood, turning off the taps and helping her into the bath.
His hand trembled. If he was nervous, she couldn’t think why. He must have seen other women naked. That fleeting thought brought a pang of jealousy, but he was here, with her—no one else. And she believed all he’d said: that she was the one he’d chosen, of all the women he’d known.
She exclaimed as the water covered her, for it was gloriously hot.
‘Lie back now.’ He spoke softly.
While she unpinned her hair, letting the damp locks fall about her shoulders, he removed his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. The light covering of gold on his forearms reminded her of when she’d seen him almost as naked as she was now. His chest had been hairier than she’d expected, and there had been the other hair, leading downward.
Her curiosity remained, as to how he looked there.
