Page 77 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
She nodded. “You’re quite the impressive specimen, although I can only compare you to drunkards who forget to properly put themselves away after relieving themselves.”
“You have not seen the best of men. I should apologize for every one of them who was ever born.”
“You show me the best.”
“I certainly intend to try, sweetheart. Move up a bit.”
Loving the endearments with which he showered her, she slid forward, heard the water splash slightly, felt it rise, saw his hands gripping the lip, and was keenly aware of him lowering himself until she was cradled between his thighs, her backside nestled against his groin, where the hard length of him nudged against her. The heat that erupted through her was both pleasant and terrifying.
He was stroking her back again, his mouth landing in the curve where shoulder met neck. “You always smell of vanilla, yet you told me you don’t cook.”
“I like the fragrance so I dab a bit behind my ears each morning.”
“Mmm.” He nuzzled just below her ear. “Makes you smell good enough to eat.”
Laughing, she twisted around and caught sight of his shoulder. The wound was healing, a raw and angry red scar evidence of what he’d endured. Splashing water around them with her movements, she faced him squarely and touched trembling fingers to it. “Oh, Thorne.”
“It hardly hurts any longer.”
“It shouldn’t hurt at all, it shouldn’t have happened at all.” Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to the puckered flesh.
“Then I’d have not met you.” His hand came up, his palm cradling her chin, her jaw while his fingers threaded up into her hair. “And my life would be that much poorer for having not known you.”
He brought her mouth down to his. As she adjusted her position to better accommodate him, water sloshed around them. There was barely any room to move, but it didn’t seem to matter as they slid along the slick length of each other, passion igniting, desire building. She wanted to run her hands over every inch of him, kiss every scar. Before the night of the attack, he hadn’t a single one. She wished she’d seen him unmarred, and yet the scars he’d obtained didn’t detract in the least from his magnificence.
And he was magnificent, not only in his looks, but in his actions, running the soap over her body even as he kept his mouth latched to hers, his tongue working its magic to heat her throughout. Even if the water grew chilly, she wouldn’t notice, not when she was pressed up against a warm male.
Eventually he had to break off the kiss in order to reach all of her. “It would be an easier chore if I were small.”
“I’m glad you’re not. I like your height.”
“Some of the lads who knew I was a girl—and some of the men now I suspect—would call me Longshanks.”
“I can think of nothing finer than being named after a king.”
She furrowed her brow. “He was a king?”
“Edward the First. He was known for his height.”
“I don’t think they meant it as a compliment.”
“Still you should take it as one.” He held out his hand, the ball of soap resting in his palm. “Your turn.”
She took her time, washing him, torturing him with little touches, deliberately skimming her breasts over soapy skin, relishing the sight of him closing his eyes as though in rapture, and hearing his groans. After a while nothing was left to clean and the water had grown too cold for their bodies to keep each other warm. They helped each other clamber out of the tub, and using towels he’d set before the fire, they dried each other off. It was such a natural intimate exchange that she could see herself doing it every night for the remainder of her life.
But it wouldn’t be every night. It was merely tonight. Perhaps one or two more, only until he took a wife. It would be devastating to give him over to another, but she had her tavern—which she had neglected rather badly of late—and her family and the people who frequented her establishment. They’d always been enough. They would be again. Simply not tonight.
Tonight her world had narrowed down to Thorne and only Thorne. Based on the way his gaze slowly perused her, now that all the water droplets were gone and the towel had been tossed aside, she couldn’t help but believe his world had narrowed down to her, to only her.
“You are beautiful beyond compare,” he said quietly. “And you’ve done such a splendid job of secreting it all away that I suspect I’m the only chap fortunate enough to have an inkling regarding the treasures you keep hidden.”
“I’m beginning to think you spend a great deal of your time with your nose buried in books of poetry.”
“You bring out the poet in me.” He lifted her into his arms.
“Your injuries,” she exclaimed.
“Are almost healed.”
