Page 13 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Gleaming beads encircled knowing eyes whileshe tied a bow under her chin. “Indeed, we are in a brothel, but those painted women are an overly cheerful lot.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Their cheeristhe deceit.”
“Then it’s not their nakedness which bothers you,” he said. “It’s their demeanor.”
Miss Fletcher was migrating closer to him. Her bow finished, a small frown showed above it. He grinned, delighted at having ruffled her feathers.
“Have I struck an uncomfortable note?” he asked.
“Not... quite.”
He canted his head. “Explain yourself.”
Miss Fletcher studied him as if she played a bigger conversational game and he, the unwitting opponent.
“It is not an appropriate topic of conversation.”
“What about our conversation in the gaming room?” he goaded. “Was that appropriate?”
She rewarded him with an amiable smile. “Fair logic, Mr. West, but I am trying to be delicate.”
“I don’t need delicate.”
“Ah, that’s right,” she said, drawing near. “You have a taste for forthrightness.”
“Most men do.”
The Scotswoman pinned him with an artful gaze. “Then you’ll appreciate myindelicatesummation that you, like most men, think the sun rises and sets on your John Thomas.”
He grunted.What a saucy piece.With black velvet draping luscious curves, she made an enchanting picture until her pretty mouth spilled more sacrilege.
“And like most men, you believe women bask in the glory of your virality. The truth is most women do not.”
He tried to be casual, arms crossed and all. “Never had a woman complain.”
Miss Fletcher hooked a finger through a buttonhole on his coat, and a carnal earthquake rocked him.
“Oh, I’m sure the stars shimmered, and the moon shined brighter,” she said teasingly soft.
A grin broke despite an effort to quash it. “Never said I inspired poetry.”
Her answering smile told him he’d brought a pistol to a cannon fight.
“I tried to warn you.”
Her gentle tug on his coat ran a plumb line, hot and fast, south of his navel.
Bloody hell—this woman would make a monk cry.
He was mildly affronted, highly curious, and vexingly aroused. A strange effect. The Scotswoman disassembled him, piece by piece, yet the more she talked, the more transfixed he was by her and her genteel Edinburgh accent. There was an educated back-of-the-mouth treatment Miss Fletcher gave to her words. Definitely a voice to warm his cockles on a cold winter’s night.
This was a first, a woman’s voice inciting lust.
What was next? Worshipping her knees?
“You sound confident,” he said, a touch surly.
