“I’m not running.”
She huffs, and a moment later she’s beside me. “I should have worn pants.” Her panting gasps draw my attention. Such beautiful sounds.
My step falters. She’s got her skirts bunched in her hands, pulled up to her mid-thigh like when she climbed the gate. Unlike yesterday, however, I’m now close enough to see the ruffled hem of her short bloomers, and for some reason that tease of fabric ignites a fire in my belly. She moves past me, and all my attention narrows on the back of her thighs and that ridiculous bustle shivering under the fabric as she walks. My mind conjures an image of her bent over in front of me, her ass in the air, that absurd woman’s fashion accessory bouncing as I pound into her from behind.
“Are you coming?” she asks over her shoulder with a coy smile, stopping to wait for me.
Goddess, those words. Oh, how I want to. I imagine closing the distance between us and pinning her roughly against the wall. Picture teasing the ruffle of those bloomers with my fingers, delving into them to find the treasure that’s between her legs, diving into her warmth to discover how she’d tighten around me.Fuck. My breath halts in my lungs, and I stop walking to allow it to catch up with me.
She still has her skirts lifted, and I want to wedge my thigh between her legs and lean into her. Better yet, drop to my knees and taste her through those goddess-damned bloomers. Why did this woman have to come so close to the new moon? I’vealways had a healthy appetite, but it’s been two weeks since the last new moon and my control is pulled too tight. Ready to snap.
“What game are you playing, Professor?”
“Not playing any game. Yet.” She cocks an eyebrow at me, the wench.
I move closer, slowly, feeling like the predator I am and knowing how dangerously I’m toeing the line. When I stop just in front of her, I hear her breath hitch. And still she holds up those damn skirts. Unable to resist, I lean closer, near enough to catch her scent but not as close as I want. “It might be a very dangerous game.”
I like that her eyes search mine. That her tongue darts out to wet her lips, coating them in a slick shine. She seems as affected by me as I am by her. I have half a mind to find out how wet she is for me right now. With patience I don’t feel, I reach out and run the back of my fingers against the back of her bare hand from her wrist to the knuckles. As I descend to feel her thigh–
“Isn’t this a pretty picture?”
I snap away from Miss Rose too quickly, revealing too much. I notice how she blinks, the slight tilt of her chin, and the way she shakes her head as if to clear it of confusion. It was careless of me to get carried away like that. Damn, reckless.
Jafeth laughs. “I love when you’re unsettled, Noah. It’s such a rarity.” He grins, and his gaze turns to Ruby.
She smoothes down her skirts, once again covering those tempting legs.
Next to Jafeth, Shemaiah takes in the scene with a tilted head and a frown. He’s always been observant, and right now, I’m sure he’s picked up on my craving for this woman.
I straighten my vest and clear my throat, hoping to expel whatever possessed me to lose my head. “Escort Miss Rose to the library. I’ve already pulled some books she might find interesting. They’re on the main table.”
Without looking back, I walk away, leaving Professor Ruby Rose behind. To hell with my father’s dictates that I keep an eye on her. There’s no reason my brothers can’t share that burden, and I have work to do. I stop briefly to lay a heavy hand on Shemaiah’s shoulder.
“Don’t let her out of your sight,” I whisper.
Duty done, I put as much distance as I can between myself and temptation.
7
Ruby
By the time I slam shut the third book in the pile, my stomach is in nauseous knots. The drivel in each manuscript is infuriating. They provide nothing but the usual opinions about the evils of women and their sexuality, along with observations about how “a woman—or the temptress—is to blame for the unabashed rage of a man who is unable to control his baser instincts around her.” And “...as hunters, it is in a man’s nature to hunt, and women are thereby prey.” “Biology,” one resource even purported.
This isn’t any different than the resources I have access to at the university or even my male colleagues. I stand, needing to walk away and shake off my frustration.
With my palms pressed against the small of my back, I meander to the nearest wall to peruse the titles. The room is rather dark, lit only by a few lamps and wall sconces as well as the flickering fire, but the library is impressive—even if the collection is dusty and antiquated. Built-in bookcases frameeach wall around the massive room. Dark stained wood offers a stark contrast to the marble busts of forgotten men laid to rest in front of book spines of varying colors. They taunt me now, with their presumptuous looks, as if they know exactly how futile my afternoon has been.
There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason to the organization of the books, but I suppose there must be. The family, perhaps, has a system they created. I wonder how quickly I might ascertain it. I’ve always been good at figuring out systems. Organization is an art in and of itself. It’s what I loved about working at the college library while getting my graduate degree. I found the order and control calming.
“Everything alright?” Shemaiah asks. He’s sitting in a wingback chair near a large fireplace, over which hangs a horrific portrait of some ancient man with mean, dark eyes, and a thin, unsmiling mouth.
“Fine.”
Shemaiah hums a discordant note. “It would sound as if you are anything but fine.”
I glance over my shoulder and see he’s still immersed in his book. He slumps in his chair, though not in a slovenly way, but rather in a carefree pose that communicates his complete ease. An ankle rests against his opposite knee with one of his hands curled around his mouth. He shares an ethereal beauty with Noah, though the two carry themselves differently. Whereas Noah expresses displeasure at most things, Shemaiah projects an attitude of reflective indifference. Strange, that I’ve begun to measure others against the inhospitable man who both sets my teeth on edge and ignites a spark in my core. It’s maddening.
“Does it matter?” I ask.