She twisted her head against the pillow, a whispery breath escaping her lips.
He sat back and admired his handiwork, loving the look of her pointy nipples and rosy areolas now visible through the moist material. This costume was quite a boon.
He looked back up at her face. She now faced him, and he was struck by the sweetness of her. Her full lips and rounded cheeks made her look almost angelic. How unfair that he couldn’t just keep her. But he supposed he could, mistresses were common enough. He had just never considered he would have to take one. He had always assumed he would have a happy marriage like his parents. Of course, he could blame those same parents for his current predicament. An American! Damnation! But he would marry the woman out of respect for his parents. And respect to their memory.
Well, he could dwell on that or he could concentrate on— other things.
His gaze returned to his bed partner. Her face may look angelic, but her body was absolutely sinful. He reached out a hand to stroke her belly, amazed at her heat and the softness of her skin.
Again another whispered breath slipped past those kissable lips.
He grinned and ran his fingers lower. If her skin was this hot, he could only imagine what her
quim
would feel like. He touched her through the triangle, taking pleasure in the slide of the sheer material over her springy little curls.
This time she whimpered, and her thighs fell apart, begging him to touch her more intimately.
He crawled down between her spread thighs. The diaphanous material thinned to a narrow little strip that barely covered her sweet mound. A musky scent seemed to radiate from her, warm and delicious.
He gritted his teeth. God, could he remember ever feeling this aroused?
This hungry for a woman?
He looked back up at her face, and something mingled with his desire, intensifying it, making him mad for her. He wanted to enter her, to thrust himself into her so deep that he could feel every inch of himself surrounded by her luscious heat.
Part of him was excited at the idea of taking this woman while she slept. But another part of him wanted to stare into her eyes as he filled her. He wanted to see her desire, her need in her wide green eyes.
He paused. Why did he think her eyes would be green when he could not even recall who she was?
Strange.
But the unanswered question did not distract him long.
She moved her leg and whimpered softly.
He smiled, focusing on the delights before him.
He traced the strip of the triangle where it narrowed between her thighs. Silky material and fine curls tickled his hand. Moisture scorched his fingertip, and he nudged the thin material away from her, admiring her pink, moist flesh. Gently he parted her and pressed his finger to the tiny nub waiting for him.
She gasped, her lips parting. Her eyes remained
shut
, but her legs fell wider apart, giving him full access to her heat. He accepted it, stroking her, circling her. Only leaving her
to
sink his finger into her startling tightness, but then he went right back to that tiny nub.
She moaned, wiggling her hips against his hand.
He gave her what her body begged for, touching her relentlessly, building the pace and the pressure until she cried out.
“Rhys!
Oh, Rhys!”
Oh, yes, he was going to keep her.
Rhys was
over
her, touching her with his hands and his mouth. She exalted in the feel of him, so happy that he was there, bringing her back from the black, empty place where she’d been trapped, unable to struggle to the surface.
But this new place.
Mmm
, she liked this place, all sensation and arousal.
All Rhys.
His lips on her breasts, tugging at her nipples, nipping her.
Pleasure shot through her.
His hands were large and strong on her skin. He stroked her belly, her hips. She was drowning in need.
Then his finger found the spot where she most wanted to be touched.
Touched by him.
He rubbed and swirled.
Until she exploded.
Jane gasped and panted, and finally once the ecstasy slowly subsided into long, slow waves of satisfaction, she opened her eyes.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. She’d never, never had a dream like that.
“I agree,” a rich, husky voice said.
Jane shot up and made a startled noise. Rhys knelt, fully naked, between her spread thighs.
“Good morning.” He greeted her with a lopsided smile.
Jane backed away from him, mortified, until the headboard stopped her retreat. Then she scrambled off the bed and dashed through an open door that she prayed was the bathroom. Slamming the door, she leaned heavily against it.
What had she done? She tried to recall how she could have gotten here—with Rhys—but nothing was clear. The last clear memory she had was Rhys saving her in the alley. He walked her back to the hotel. She realized she lost her parents’ wedding rings, and she went to look for them. And then…
Here.
Having an orgasm.
An orgasm Rhys gave her.
Even thinking about that made her knees feel weak.
What? Was she mad? Wasn’t she worried about what else had happened between them—things she couldn’t remember?
Had they had full intercourse? Again, her knees felt weak, and longing pooled deep in her belly.
Was she deranged? She shouldn’t be feeling turned on by the prospects of a night with him that she couldn’t remember. She should be freaking out.
Well, she was freaking out. But she feared it wasn’t for the right reasons.
A light rap on the door caused her to jump.
“Are you all right in there?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She closed her eyes. What did Rhys think of her? He must think she was a first-rate hussy.
Rhys sat on the edge of the bed. It would cost a few hundred pounds and likely a house in town to keep her as his mistress. But whatever the price he would keep her. She was first-rate.
He glanced at the nightstand, looking for his pocket watch. It was not there, but two gold rings and a necklace sat on the dark, polished wood.
He picked up the small ring, noting that the circle was so tiny it would only fit someone the stature of the little woman in the other room. He picked up the other ring. It was bigger, thicker,
more
masculine. He vaguely remembered these.
Remembered that they had to do with the woman in the other room.
He twisted it over and over in his palm, trying to remember, when an inscription on the ring caught his eye.
To R
—
Yours
forever. J
.
His chest tightened. Was this ring intended for him? Slowly, he slid the gold band onto his finger. It was snug, but it fit.
He stared at the ring for several seconds before he crossed to the closed door and threw it open.
The woman squealed and tried to cover herself with her hands.
Rhys ignored her modesty, although he knew her reaction was real. Not even ten minutes ago, he would have thought the behavior was an expensive whore’s trick to entice him. Now he knew different.
“Are we married?” he demanded, holding up the smaller of the two rings.
Jane’s first thought was to say, no! But then she realized she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t remember, and apparently, neither did
he
.
Did
Las Vegas
? She’d never heard of them, but at this point, anything seemed possible.
“I—I don’t think so.”
She stared at him. He was still bare-chested, his torso defined with hard muscle. T
hank
fully, he had pulled on his trousers; otherwise she never would have been able to speak. Although the pants were unfastened, revealing a
vee
of flat stomach and light whorls of hair trailing downward.
She dragged her eyes upward
to
his face. That didn’t help. He was a truly beautiful man. His hair was mussed from sleep, and his eyes were intent, studying her.
He frowned, even as a look of realization washed over his features. “You are Jane Harrison.” He said it slowly, almost experimentally, as if he was dredging the name up from somewhere way in the back of his mind.
She nodded.
Please don’t tell me he has forgotten even more than I have
? What happened to them? How had they both forgotten last night?
“Yes, I remember those amazing green eyes,” he said resolutely. “You are my betrothed.”
Jane stared at him. What was he talking about? And why did he suddenly have an English accent? She didn’t remember him having an accent when he’d walked her back to her hotel.
“Jane Harrison from
America
?”
She nodded. She supposed that was true. But where did he think he was from?
“I should have realized.” He stepped forward and touched her hair, letting the unruly strands slip through his fingers.
“Your hair—that smart crop.
Is that the fashion in
America
?”
She eyed him warily. “Yes?”
He studied her a moment longer, then gave a decisive nod. “I like it.”
Before she could respond, he crouched in front of her, and she clapped her hands over her scant
undies
.
He noticed, his sculpted lips twisting into a slight smile. She supposed it was a little late to be modest now.
His smile disappeared into something akin to astonishment as he gently reached out and touched her calf.
Heat immediately ran through her. Her skin felt electrified where his fingers brushed over her, and she remembered those wonderful long fingers touching other parts of her body. She bit her lip to stifle a moan as he slowly ran his hand up to her knee and then back to her ankle.
He peered up at her, amazement clear on his face. “Americans shave their legs?”
“Only the women.”
Then she amended that. “Well, I guess a few men do, too.”
He considered that for a moment,
then
finally nodded with understanding.
He stood. “I must find Christian and Sebastian. Hopefully they will recall what happened between us last night.” He left the bathroom.
Oh, dear, was he implying that others might have been involved, too? She really, really hoped not. Although she did hope these men could explain how she got here and why Rhys was acting so strange.
“Christian!” Rhys bellowed as soon as he stepped out of the bedroom into the hall. “Sebastian!”
Jane didn’t follow right away, relieved to see her blouse and skirt folded on a chair in the corner of the room. She stopped and pulled them on.
She heard Rhys shout again and chased after him.
In the hallway, Jane squealed with surprise as she nearly ran into a blond man who stepped out in front of her from one of the doorways lining the long hallway.
“What the hell is with all the yelling?” he asked in a raspy, sleep-filled voice.
Jane didn’t answer, too amazed by the sight of him.
This man looked younger than Rhys, with shorter hair which stuck out in a wild mess. He had hazel eyes like Rhys, although his didn’t seem to have that unusual amber glow. She could see, since he wore only black silk
pajama
bottoms, that he was leaner, too—not as wide or as tall as Rhys. But he did remind her of Rhys.
“Hey,” he said, not seeming to notice that she was staring. “I’m Sebastian,
Rhys’s
brother.” He offered her a hand and a lopsided smile very similar to the one Rhys had given her this morning.
“I’m Jane.” So this man
was
related to Rhys. They must come from one amazing gene pool.
“Is that my crazy brother yelling?”
Jane nodded, wondering exactly how crazy he was talking.
“Sebastian,” Rhys said, striding down the hall toward them. His eyes dropped to where she and Sebastian still held hands. His eyes narrowed, and Jane pulled her hand out of Sebastian’s hold, feeling guilty. Rhys probably thought she was easy as it was; she didn’t want him to think she was moving on to his brother.
But instead of being suspicious of her, he turned his attention to Sebastian. “I would be careful, brother. I do not intend to share my woman.”
Heat sizzled through Jane’s belly at his possessiveness. But she immediately admonished herself. She shouldn’t be enjoying this. She had no idea what was going on—and Rhys was clearly not acting normal.
“Especially since she is now, very likely anyway, my wife and thus your sister,” Rhys added, smiling down at her as if he was quite pleased with that idea.