Page 40 of The Virgin and the Viscount

He started undressing himself. “What does that mean?”

She followed the movements of his hands, first removing his shirt and then his trousers and then his underthings until he stood before her gloriously wearing nothing more than his sinewy flesh. Good gracious, but her husband was a sight to look upon. The muscles in his thighs were perfectly shaped. So thick and well sculpted.

She reached a hand out to trace down his muscled torso. “You are perfect, as if Michelangelo himself carved you.”

He hissed a breath through his teeth. “I like it when you touch me.” He took a step closer to her. “But I want to go back to this nonsense you said earlier. You believe I said you were lovely only because I wish to have relations with you?”

Truly, she did not wish to discuss this. She was not blind to her imperfections. She shrugged. “It does seem as if your compliments are wasted on me. I am your wife. I shall not deny you in the bedroom, whether you find me attractive to look upon or not.”

“Tilly.” Again he tipped her chin so she would look at him. His brow weighed heavy with a frown. “You are a very beautiful woman.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle. “Can we get into the water? It is getting chilled in here.”

He nodded, then stepped into the enormous copper tub. Once he had leaned back, he held a hand out to her to follow suit. She stepped into the heated water and sighed. The hot water lapped at her flesh as she settled herself in front of him. He pulled her so she lay flush against him, her back to his chest. He looped an arm loosely around her waist, then reached up and cupped her breast lightly.

“I am odd looking, at best,” she said. “No one would ever believe me to be more than that. Perhaps I have a few pleasing features.”

His hand continued their ministrations on her breasts, kneading and teasing. “I don’t know who the devil told you such lies, but that is ridiculous.”

“I am too tall for a woman.”

“I am taller than the average man. Your height makes it so I don’t have to lean down too far to kiss you, thus avoiding a neck injury. Perfect.” He nibbled against the back of her neck and her nipples tightened almost painfully.

She arched her neck to give him better access as his tongue licked at her sensitive flesh, his teeth nibbled her skin. “My legs are too long.”

“Long enough to wrap around me while I plow inside you. Perfect.”

His words melted inside her like butter on a warm piece of bread. She leaned her head back. “My breasts are too small.”

His other hand slid up her belly so that now he cupped both her breasts. He squeezed them, flicked their hardening nipples. She arched into his touch. “They are the exact right size for my mouth and hands. Perfect.”

She fought off a smile. “I have far too many freckles. As you have seen, they are everywhere.”

“Ahh, those infernal freckles. You have no notion of how many nights I lay awake wondering about these freckles of yours. They are like stars on your fair skin. I want to connect them with my fingertips and tongue. Find designs in them. Count them. Perfect.” He shifted slightly, bringing one hand up to her shoulder. His fingers lightly traced the skin there. “I believe these are my favorite of your freckles.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him to find him staring intently at her skin. God, he knew precisely what to do to arouse her. One touch and she was liquid fire in his arms. “Why?”

“This little collection here,” his finger traced across her skin, “reminds me of the constellation Andromeda. A fellow soldier really enjoyed astronomy. He taught me about the different constellations when we were in Burma.”

Sullivan didn’t speak of the war often, and she wanted to ask questions. Was that other soldier a friend? Had he returned alongside Sullivan or had he been one of the many casualties? She didn’t know how to ask, though, so she took the simple way out of that conversation and brought it back to her cataloguing of her features. “My hair is neither brunette nor red. Rather it is an odd mix of the two.”

“Your hair is the color of cinnamon and I’ve never quite figured out if I think you smell of cinnamon because of that or if you do, in fact, smell of cinnamon.”

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to hear his words.

He leaned so close to her ear. “Perfect,” he whispered.

Gooseflesh scattered over her body. Her nipples tightened and she felt slippery between her thighs, a dampness that had nothing to do with the water. “It’s cloves, actually, but similar to cinnamon. It’s in my hair rinse.” His erection pressed against her back; a metal rod against her sensitive flesh.

Again his hands caressed her breasts, plucking at her tender nipples. “Any other complaints about yourself?”

“My teeth. I hate the gap between my front teeth.”

“Your smile, when you give it freely, lights up a room. That gap is charming and endearing and unique, and all you. All of these supposed imperfections meld together to form you, Tilly, my wife. I love the way you look. I think you are beautiful.” He ground himself against her from behind. “And I desire you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any other woman.”

“Then I guess it bodes well for you that I’m your wife.”

“You saucy minx, I suppose it does.” He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck, running his nose up to her ear. “Do you believe me?”

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