Page 71 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
“It’s something special, little bear.” He brought his fingers to her collarbone, touching very lightly.
“That’s why I want it to be you.”
“Even though…” His voice trailed off. He knew, she supposed, that he didn’t need to say it; not for her benefit. They both knew.
He wasn’t going to be hers.
She wasn’t going to be his.
Whatever happened, it was just for this moment in time.
And that was fine—because it was her choice. No matter what happened, she’d always have this. It would be her secret, tucked safely from the judgement of others.
She turned around and gave him a smile. “You need to catch up. I’m not taking off the rest until you’ve shown me everything.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With top coat and boots gone, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it to one side.
His chest was just as broad and muscled as she’d known it would be—like the statues in the British Museum, but far from marble cold. His skin was a light brown, marked at the shoulders by the sun. And there was hair on his chest—curling thick like the mane on his head, covering all the way to a dark arrow pointing downward, disappearing within the waistband of his trousers.
Her eyes were fixed there, on that trailing line. She had an inkling where it led to. Not all statues wore fig leaves, after all. And she’d felt the outline of what he kept in his trousers, too—the first time he’d kissed her, and again, outside; something hard that wanted to poke at her belly.
“Keep going.”
She wanted to see it.
He tipped his fingers in mock salute and slowly pulled through his belt. She watched him unbutton the fly, letting the trousers drop. With only his small garments beneath, the outline of his manhood was apparent. It pushed out against the fabric, making a tent in front.
“These as well?” He was teasing, pulling out the waistband and peeking inside. “Are you sure your maidenly sensibilities can cope?”
“Uh huh.” She licked her lips. There was no doubt in her mind.
And then, they were off.
He stood entirely naked, backlit by the fire. The front of his body was half-shadowed but she saw enough to know that he was a prime specimen of man.
The hair sprung thick between his legs, but it did nothing to hide that part of him a man used for reproduction.
She felt hot and lewd, wanting to touch him—was struck by a yearning to rub her cheek over him; not just over the fur of his chest and that flat abdomen but along his thighs and…
Her heart was racing.
Had she really just thought that?
Yes. She wanted to rub her face over his penis.
Not just her face.
She wanted to open her mouth and taste it.
What was wrong with her?
She was depraved, surely.
Except that, looking at Rye, and seeing how he was looking at her, it didn’t feel like it could be wrong.
Keeping her eyes on this new part of him, she pulled the ribbon of her chemise and shimmied it downward, then did the same with the ribbon on her drawers.
Suddenly, she was as naked as he, feeling a little goosebumped and uncertain.
