Page 36 of The Lyon Whisperer
She held a hand to her belly. “Inside, I feel warm and rather melty. Like—”
He groaned, eyes closed, and jammed one hand through his thick, black hair. “Only when it’s being done right,” he all but growled. He cracked his eyes open and slanted her a glance. “Is there anythingelseyou wish to ask me, madame?”
When we make love, it will be at your behest.
He expected her to ask him, now? She arched a brow, feigning ignorance, though her pulse raced, and a part of her, a very tiny part, considered do just that. “Such as?”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Never mind. I’ll escort you to your chambers.”
“Thank you,” she said, sounding chipper—or she meant to.
The flicker of amusement in his dark eyes told her she may have missed the mark.
She might,might,prefer more kissing to retiring to her chambers, but that was a far cry from making love.
This was better. She had tasks to see to tonight, and, as he’d noted, the night grew late.
A long whilelater, Chase lay in bed in his pitch-dark chamber, head propped on one forearm, staring up at the white plaster ceiling.
He’d turned in an hour ago, at least. Normally, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Not tonight.
Tonight he could not relax his brain—nor other parts of his body—thanks to one slip of a woman separated from him by a few feet and an unlocked door.
Not that he’d enter her chamber uninvited.
But he wanted her. Badly. She’d seen to that, and he’d bet his last farthing she hadn’t a bloody clue. She seemed, for lack of a better word,curious.What’s more,pleasantly surprisedto find her husband’s kisses sexually aroused her.
Warm and melty, indeed.
He snorted. For a heartbeat, standing at her door he’d thought she might invite him into her chamber. But, of course, she hadn’t.
He’d told her they would make love at her urging. He meant that. He simply had not anticipated how desperately a few kisses and conversation would make him.
Conversation.
He ran a hand through his hair. Why had he told her all he had about his childhood, his parents? He’d spent what amounted to a lifetime distancing himself from their madness, and in a matter of days, he spilled all—or almost all—to his wife.
So she’d had a lonely upbringing. So her father, who clearly spoiled her despite her claims of paternal neglect, had not had a care for her feelings. So she’d gown up motherless. She still had wealth, prestige, beauty. In short, privilege.
But there was something so very guileless about her asking to know him. Asking for his kisses.
Hell’s teeth, his cock still pulsed.
A thump sounded from Amelia’s chamber, and he sat bolt upright. Had she knocked?
He threw his covers off and stalked, naked, to the adjoining door. He pressed his ear against the night-chilled wood panel and strained to listen. He heard nothing.
He swallowed. Dare he call her name?
No. Hell no. He would not fawn after the woman, regardless of the fact his manhood ached for release.
His father had made that mistake, and it had ended in disaster for all of them.
He stomped back to bed and threw himself onto the mattress, heedless of the bunched-up bedding beneath him.
He would stick to his plan. Amelia would have to come to him, the first time at least.
With ruthless will, he turned his thoughts to his meeting today, something he really ought to spend time contemplating. Bender, his uncle’s man-of-affairs, seemed certain the fires in the area had been premeditated. Someone had to have seen something, but thus far, no one had come forward.
