Page 88 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Her breasts were his weakness.
Arms still behind her back, she thrusted them forward. “The story... or I stop.”
Thomas’s eyes became green slits.
“Always seeking the most advantageous terms.”
“Nothing wrong with a woman asking for what she wants.”
Which tasted foreign on her tongue. A fine sentiment in commerce, but this was her gloriously letting go.
The corner of his mouth curled with approval. “A tale, then,” he said softly.
She waited, her fingers snagging on the tapes of her petticoat. His voice really did things to her. Its cadence, smooth and jagged in perfect measure. His occasional dockside accent.
And so he began, “There once was a fair ship. Bold, beautiful, her lines sleek. She ruled the North Sea, but make no mistake, she was a saucy piece, this ship, with the prettiest pair of... masts.”
Mary giggled. “Masts are not pretty.”
He arched a wicked brow. “These two are. And I’ll bid you to remember this is my story.”
“Consider me duly chastised.”
She was buoyant and pleased, undoing her petticoat. The tapes were flimsy but agreeable. Thomas began to undo more waistcoat buttons, his long, agile fingers careful, adroit. She watched them until her gaze found his eyes sparkling with humor as though he understood the tempo of their assignation must strike a perfect balance. Not too fast and not too slow.
Thomas let his waistcoat fall to his feet. Her fingers got clumsy when she noticed his open placket. Brown curls sprang above his smalls—the part of him she’d touched but hadn’t seen.
“Her masts were a remarkable sight, curving high and proud,” he went on. “The foresail and the mainsail, as it happens. An indispensable pair.”
Her red-and-white-striped petticoat drifted down her legs. “On a ship, these would be?”
“Why, the largest pair.”
“Of course.”
She was certain she dimpled. Thomas delighted in spinning this story. He was a sight, his waistcoat loose and shirt half-untucked.
“She was finely curved,” he said. “Her contours elegant. As well crafted as any ship could be.”
Chin to chest, Mary set to work on her underskirt and panniers, aware that he might end with a laugh and a naughty limerick.
Humor, however, would not be his lure. His deliberate heel strikes were.
Like a startled doe, she raised her head. He was coming for her.
Air stirred against her skin. Her pannier and underskirt puddled around her feet. She clutched her shift to her belly, challenging his hungry stare until he drifted behind her and brushed aside her hair. Precious seconds were spent waiting, the back of her ablaze.
Thomas drew a worshipful line in the furrow of her spine.
Tiny quakes erupted. Everywhere. Intense shocks of pleasure falling from the crown of her head to her bottom.
Her sea wolf’s hand tarried at the small of her back. “She was capable of riding any storm.”
His humor was a Trojan horse. She’d remember that when Thomas let her have her body back.
“Fierce storms, calm seas,” he murmured, stroking her again and again. “She soared through them all.”
He traced her ribs, her shoulder blades. Innocuous bones. She was heavy eyed and grateful Thomas found them. An artful sculptor, he adored each one.
