Page 23 of Three Days to Be Ruined
“A winemaker’s wife never touches his husband with her gloves on.”
“I feel you are inventing these as we go, Mr. Sandeman. Soon, you’ll have more rules than my etiquette book.”
He peeled away the lace and silk, baring her fingers to the cool air and his hungry eyes. He then placed her gloves in his pocket. There went another piece of her trousseau. Would she still have one after these tests were over?
“Now, touch, Miss Croft.”
Beth obliged. Later, perhaps, she would reprimand herself or regret this, but the soft shadows and the cocoon of light made it all too intimate. She touched his brows first. Why? She didn’t know, but they seemed so mobile. If she became friends with his eyebrows, they would stop judging her so fiercely. Approve of her for a change? She caressed his bristled cheek next, marveling at how rough his skin felt compared to her own. He twitched when her fingers reached the bridge of his nose, and when she brushed his bottom lip, he stopped breathing.
She met his gaze. The expression he wore made her heart retreat, cowering behind her ribs.
“You know, Mr. Sandeman, that sitting while a woman stands is rude?”
“I’m a rude man, Miss Croft. You do not know how much. But, never say, I cannot learn.”
His hands slid from the armchair and settled around her waist. Before she could process what he was doing, he pulled her into his lap.
By Heavens, the heat of a Highlander. It climbed from her buttocks to her chest until she felt as though she were inside a furnace. Perhaps a winemaker’s wife would never need to worry about heating in winter—at least not in the bedroom. The thought alone made her cheeks burn.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, more erratic than her cousin Victoria’s at her worst. Beth immediately smoothed her skirts, desperate to cling to a modicum of modesty.
He caught her wrist. “Leave them as is. Proceed, Miss Croft.”
His thighs were hard beneath her, and thank the stars he wore no kilt. How much more improper would this challenge be if his legs were bare? Perched on his lap, every inch of him gained a boldness she couldn’t ignore—the firm muscles beneath her, the solid warmth of his chest, the quiet command in his grip.
“I—I presume a winemaker’s wife sits in her husband’s lap to kiss him?”
He grunted.
Beth leaned forward, eyes closed.
It was his turn to touch her. He cradled her face, his lips brushing hers before nibbling softly. “Open for me, Beth.”
“Mr. Sandeman, I don’t think—”
Slowly, his tongue traced the seam of her lips. She hesitated, every refined instinct urging her to pull away, to preserve that final barrier. But when his hand slid up her spine, fingers splaying over her back, her defenses melted. Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers.
Boyd’s possession was deliberate, warm, and—God help her—utterly consuming. The taste of him, forbidding and Scotch,made her head spin. His arms closed around her, pulling her flush against him, his heartbeat steady and strong beneath her fingertips. Madness. Utter, ruinous madness.
She shivered, and her fingers curled against his chest. The warmth of him, the sheer scandal, all blended into a moment that would haunt her every quiet hour. Her hands lifted, then hesitated at his shoulders. She wanted to hold on, to steady herself, but the sensation of his mouth against hers sent her pulse into a frantic quadrille dance, and she caressed his cheek. This time, when his tongue pushed inside her lips, she... she tasted him.
A groan escaped him, low and unguarded. “There now, that’s how a winemaker’s wife steals a man’s breath.”
His kiss grew bolder, his tongue sliding against hers in a deep, searching rhythm that left her dizzy. The firmness of his chest against hers, the rough scrape of his stubble along her jaw—it was too much.
A shiver ran through her as his hand rose to cup her face. Heat unfurled through her, awakening parts of her that had no decent names. Her fingers found his shoulders, clutching to keep herself steady even as his kiss threatened to unravel every careful boundary she’d clung to.
He relinquished the mouth invasion to brush his lips against her cheek. “Call me by my name.”
his voice was hot on her neck, hot everywhere.
“That would not be proper,” she panted, her lips tingling, missing the contact.
“A winemaker’s wife calls her husband by his name.”
“I’m not a winemaker’s wife. Propriety—”
“You have my tongue in your mouth, Beth. Fuck propriety. Say my name.”
