Page 47 of For a Scot's Heart Only
He drew a finger through the mask’s feathers. “Very pretty.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Arousal stuck to her skin. She began to feel the weight of her circumstances when Mr. West didn’t ask to untie the bow at the back of her head, and she didn’t stop him when he reached behind her. His was a gentle claiming. His sleeve grazing her hair. His scent melting her. The wood, the leather. The hint of tar and iron, which clung to his clothes.
If Mr. West was a mistake, she’d gladly pay the price.
When the mask slipped, she gripped the switch as one might hang on to the top of a teetering ladder.
He tossed the mask onto the bed and thumbed her cheek with aching tenderness.
“Much better.”
His scarred smile was a mystery. It belonged to a man who plundered hearts, a man for whom mermaids would forsake the sea and sirens their song. He was a tale of enchantment come to life. A sculpted bottom lip, a wide chest, perfect for nestling. His baritone, soul-deep and reassuring. Mr.West, she decided, was a lethal blend of wicked and mannered.
Even a peevish nun would blush if he touched her.
He gathered her unpinned hair with excruciating care and brought it forward over her shoulder. She shivered, his light touch to her hair so gentle and alluring. Curls spilled down the front of her, the room’s vague light finding a hint of auburn hidden in their depths. He ran his fingers lightly over them.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“I won’t tell you the hours it took to create this effect.”
“You are a work of art, no matter how you array yourself.”
She smiled. “Why, Mr. West, that was almost poetic.”
Noise, faint and festive, reached into the room, the only sign of the world outside. He plied her with tender touches, blackness pooling in his eyes. Looking into them, she felt every inch of her sluggish limbs. But something was amiss.
Giving Mr. West the key wasn’t enough. He was waiting for her to make the next move.
Her confidence slipped a notch. She was swimming in new depths without a chart.
“Would you like some wine?” she asked.
“I’m not thirsty for wine.”
But I’m thirsty for youlit his eyes. It was hard to think. With each stroke of his hand, waves of gooseflesh pebbled her skin and messed with her mind. She was as enthralled with him as the cat, Mr. Fisk.
“What about this?” She held up the switch, mischief lurking in her smile.
His mouth dented handsomely.
“Definitely not.”
She glanced at the table. “Do you fancy any of those things?”
He traced a curl over her collarbone to her breast. “Not tonight.”
Her heart stuttered and her nipples went stiff. Control was slipping like water through her fingers.
“Does that mean another night youwouldfancy those things on the table?” Her voice was a thin wisp.
He shrugged. “Anything could happen.”
Her eyes flared wider. Fear and fascination danced inside her and, strangely, the two emotions didn’t feel far apart.
“Three simple words, Mr. West, and suddenly my imagination runs amok.”
