Page 125 of For a Scot's Heart Only
The evening sped by, and everything was done together as though there was no shop to tend or ships to careen. Dishes were washed side by side, the floor swept clean, and the fire stoked. She’d yawned once and rubbed her neck. Sleep or passion—both sounded heavenly.
When she yawned again, Thomas was gentle, coming up behind her. His thumbs worked magic, finding all the knots on her neck and shoulders.
“You’re tired. Why don’t we go to bed?” he murmured above her ear.
“Because I don’t want this night to end. I like being with you.”
He kissed the crook of her neck. “I like being with you too.”
Her bed was the obvious furniture in her garret. Dark wool curtains, fluffy pillows, a practical wool counterpane, plainly stitched. No silk tassels or erotic fripperies, which made this so... domestic. Thomas nudged them along, pinching the candles and leaving them in the dark. He returned to her, rubbing his sooty thumb and forefinger on his breeches.Men.
Through the window, a three-quarter moon and scattered stars were their lights.
“This isn’t the same as an exciting interlude. No one’s going to make the bed or bring a bottle of wine.” She snorted good-naturedly. “Nor can I boast feathers and switches. It’s just me and you.”
“And that’s unexciting to you?” He folded her body against his and kept rubbing those knots.
“No, it’s... normal.”
His laugh was tender. “Do you crave the fantasy?”
“No.”
Her only craving was his hands on her shoulders. She was sure the knots would surrender any moment now. Thomas’s hands were that persuasive. The more he massaged her neck, the more she struggled to put syllables together when speaking.
Then, he whispered the most wonderful words. “Let’s go to bed and be normal. I can hold you and rub your shoulders. You’re very tense, you know.”
“That’s almost as erotic as saying you’ll do the dishes.”
Masculine laughter rumbled low. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Thomas guided her to the bed while his calloused hands made sweet snicks on her velvet-covered back.
“Wait until tomorrow night when I show my skills with needle and thread,” he teased.
“What? You sew?”
His face was beautiful above hers. “Don’t get excited. I can sew a button that’s fallen off. Nothing more.”
She traced his scar. He’d saidtomorrow nightso easily, but tomorrow night they would sneak intothe Countess of Denton’s house. She made grumbly noises and scratched the roguish whiskers on his jaw. Sea wolf, shipmaster, man of business. Thomas was those things and more. His clever hands caressed her arms, her ribs. Before she could guess what he was doing, Thomas whisked the robe volant off her body, and the heavy velvet went flying over her screen.
“Mary Fletcher, you have nothing on but your shift and stockings.”
“The benefit of my garret. There’s not much to heat.” She pulled a pin from her hair and a lock tumbled loose. “And there is you. You’re exceedingly warm.”
“I am.”
He spoke and goose bumps flared on her skin. She loved hearing the arousal in his voice. Unlike their last time together, she would not take orders. Nor would she give them. This would be a mutual discovery. Slow and easy.
She drew a line down his button flash and started at the bottom.
He watched her fingers. “An unusual tactic.”
“Yet, I’m undressing you. It feels very domestic... like something someone who wants to take care of you and see to your well-being would do.”
“Is that’s a longwinded way of saying a wife?”
Wife—a dangerous word. About as perilous as another four-letter word that began with anLand ended with anE. One should have a care when uttering them. She worked the buttons faster, daring an upward glance.
