Page 40 of The Earl Takes All
Her hair tumbled down and he buried his hands in the abundant strands, gently massaging her scalp. “I suspect an entire lifetime wouldn’t be long enough to discover every facet of you.”
“I’m not such a mystery.”
A corner of his mouth hitched up. “You are to a man who wants to know everything.”
“I don’t keep secrets.”
His gaze was far too knowing, his expression that of a man who could uncover hidden depths that she hadn’t even known she possessed. “Every lady has at least one.”
Swallowing hard, she strove not to look flustered by the accuracy of his statement as that long ago night in the garden with Edward raced through her mind. She’d never given herself leave to examine it fully, fearful of what she might uncover about herself.
Reaching past her, he snatched up her brush and began dragging it through her hair. “A hundred strokes, isn’t it?”
“I’ll be content with a dozen tonight.”
“I might not be satisfied with less than two hundred.”
“I thought you were tired.”
“Not too tired for this. It’s rather soothing, actually.”
He took such care, was so gentle. She could fall asleep right there if not for the fact that she didn’t want to miss a single moment of his attentions. How could she be so greedy for his touch, his nearness? Perhaps every now and then it was good for them to spend a few months apart.
“You’re awfully skilled. When you were a bachelor, did you treat other ladies to your talents with a brush?”
“Bit late to be jealous of them.”
“I’m not. I’m just curious.”
“I’ve never done this for another lady. I never wanted to.”
Such conviction in his words. She didn’t doubt him, she never had. But all these changes in her body seemed to play havoc with her mind, her thoughts. Some days she wept for no reason at all. Some nights she questioned her ability to hold his interest. And other times she was as confident as ever. Although presently she was yearning for an abundance of affection.
She took delight in watching his hand gliding over her hair, observing the concentration on his face as though he were as lost in the sensations as she was. She couldn’t recall him ever being so astonishingly absorbed by so simple a task. He had returned to her a man who seemed to take nothing for granted. She appreciated this new aspect to him.
Gathering up her hair, draping it over one shoulder, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, just behind her ear. It seemed he’d also grown rather fond of her neck.
“Don’t plait it,” he said in a low voice that sent a shimmer of want through her. He set the brush aside, moved to the sitting area, dropped down into a chair and began tugging off a boot.
The masculinity of the act took her by surprise, as did the realization that she had never actually watched her husband dress or undress. He’d always come to her fully prepared to face the day or to enjoy the night. He took care of his toilette in his bedchamber with the assistance of his valet.
Getting up from the bench, she headed toward the bed, casting furtive glances his way. He was setting the other boot beside the first. She reached the steps she used to clamber into bed. His stockings were joining the boots.
She climbed onto the mattress. He stood, reached up, grabbed the back of his shirt and began dragging it over his head. Little by little his skin came into view. Was there anything more sensual than the unveiling of the male torso—even one with which she was remarkably familiar? Her mouth went dry.
She brought the covers over her as though they could protect her from everything she was feeling. They could not travel where her mind wandered, not without risk to the babe. She was rather certain of that. A few more weeks before she gave birth, a few weeks of healing, and then she could have this in all its glorious splendor. She would lie beneath him, spread her thighs, truly welcome him home.
He lowered his trousers, stepped out of them, tossed them without care onto the pile of clothing that rested on the settee.
Don’t stop there, her mind urged, and it was all she could do not to voice the words aloud. What would he think of so brazen a command? He would be appalled by some of the improper places that her imagination took her. A proper countess did not desire a liaison in the garden that went beyond a kiss. A proper countess did not fasten her eyes on a man’s firm backside as he crouched to stir the fire, wishing that she were near enough that she could cup his buttocks. She did not entertain thoughts of easing her hands beneath the cloth, setting his throbbing manhood free, pushing him onto his back, lowering her mouth—
He was striding toward her. Fearful her lustful thoughts were readable on her face, she rolled onto her side, presenting him with her back. So many fantasies rambled through her mind. His objections in the copper tub had been meek at best. Perhaps he would be open to her being a little more adventuresome after the child was born.
The room descended into darkness as he lowered the flame in the lamp. The bed creaked, dipped as his chest met her back. He swept her hair aside and once more his lips made their way to the nape of her neck near her shoulder. One of his hands stroked her side, her hip. Back up. Back down. Lulling her so deeply into the sweet fondling that it took her a while to realize that each caress journeyed a little farther down.
Just above her knee. Her knee. Slightly below it. Her calf. Where the hem of her nightdress had gathered.
This time when his hand came back up, it was beneath the linen, skimming over her knee, along her thigh.
