Authors: Cheryl Holt
"He’ll like that."
"I suspected he might. The poor child has spent entirely too much time around women. He needs some manly activities."
"I agree," she mumbled.
She yawned, her supper settling, the wine increasing her lassitude. She was relaxed and terribly sleepy.
"Grace…"
"Yes?"
She might have spoken aloud or maybe she’d responded inside her head.
"Have you dozed off on me?"
I don’t know…
"Are my stories really that boring? I think you’ve crushed my ego for good."
She wanted to open her eyes, but she couldn’t move.
"You’re a mess, Grace."
I’ve thought so for a long while now.
"What should I do with you?"
There was exasperation in his voice, but fondness, too. She felt safe and secure and perfectly content. If left to her own devices, she might have napped there for all eternity.
Vaguely, she heard him push his chair back and stand. Then she was cradled to his chest.
"If you weighed any less," he murmured, "you’d simply float off into the sky."
He laid her down somewhere soft and quiet and comfortable, and after that, she didn’t remember anything, at all.
DC
Jackson stared at his bed.
It was nearly three o’clock, and Grace was resting in the middle of it.
At supper, she’d asked him about Egypt, and he’d been brimming with unbelievable tales. For once, he was ridiculously eager to expound, which was odd. He never talked about any of it, but she’d practically bubbled with curiosity.
He was preposterously captivated by her, and during the lengthy afternoon and evening, he could have untied the rope. But he’d been humored by her pluck, by her temper, so he’d kept himself bound to her much longer than necessary.
The pathetic fact was that he hadn’t wanted her to leave, hadn’t wanted to dine by himself, so he’d had the intimate meal delivered to his suite.
It hadn’t occurred to him that she might be exhausted, that she might be worn down to the bone. As she’d drooped in her seat, the most annoying wave of tenderness had swept through him. She was so darn pretty, so brave and all alone in the world.
He could have awakened her and told her to head to her room. Or he could have carried her there and tucked her in. Instead, he’d picked her up and conveyed her to his own massive bed.
He’d assumed she’d doze for a bit, then rouse and scold him, but she hadn’t stirred. He’d passed the time studying her and drinking brandy.
He’d had too much of it, and inebriation was clouding his reason. He was very tired himself, and he refused to sleep in a chair. He yearned to walk over and stretch out next to her.
It was the worst idea he’d ever had, but he was pondering it anyway. He was ready to kiss her senseless, to touch her all over, to remove her dress, to…to…
He tried to ignore the salacious thoughts that had taken root, but he couldn’t.
They enjoyed a strident physical attraction, and it appeared to be growing by leaps and bounds. If he satisfied a few urges, where was the harm? He could make her happy, and they’d both be better for it.
He didn’t have to deflower her. He could dabble and relieve some of his rampant ardor. If he didn’t alleviate it, he couldn’t predict how he might behave.
She had him so discombobulated that he was wondering if he shouldn’t tumble some of the housemaids. There were several who had cast furtive glances, sending messages that couldn’t be misconstrued. Perhaps that was the best route. Perhaps he should please himself in other rooms.
But no. He’d never been the type to interfere with the hired help, and he’d gain no peace by romping with others. It had to be
her
.
He downed the contents of his glass and went over to the bed. He eased himself onto the mattress, his body wedged to hers all the way down.
She recognized that something had changed. A scowl marred her brow, then she smiled and sighed. To his enormous surprise, she snuggled herself to him, as if thrilled that he’d finally arrived. An arm was draped across his waist, a cheek nestled to his chest.
He liked that she felt sufficiently safe to relax her guard, but she was a fool to exhibit her vulnerable side. All women had one, but she hid hers well. Down the road, as push came to shove over Michael and her claims of paternity, he envisioned many battles and she’d exposed a weak flank, which he would exploit if need be.
Briefly, he suffered a pang of conscience, hating that he was a lout, that he was as horrid and unreliable as she accused him of being.
His upbringing at the hands of cruel, bitter Beatrice had made him tough and unrepentant. Then his escape to Egypt at age eighteen, with no money in his pocket and no friends to aid him, had molded him into a stark and independent man.
Survival was paramount, and in his dealings with others, he had little regard for hurt feelings or lost chances. She was risking much by letting him close, and ultimately, she’d be sorry.
Yet at the moment, with her so sleepy and unsuspecting, he wouldn’t worry about the future. He was desperate to have her in ways no other man had dared, desperate to thrust her into a relationship she probably wouldn’t like very much.
He knew better and shouldn’t have been mulling low behavior, but they seemed to be on a collision course and careening toward a bad end. He’d convinced himself that she’d be glad they forged ahead, but that was the brandy talking. There was nothing happening except that he was drunk and feeling randy, and she was lying in his bed.
"Grace," he murmured. She didn’t respond, and he tried again. "Grace…"
Her eyes fluttered open. For a few seconds, she studied him, her confusion clear, then realization dawned. To his delight, she didn’t recoil or race out in a huff.
Her only immediate reaction was to withdraw the arm on his waist. She rose up on an elbow and assessed her surroundings.
"Where am I?" she asked.
"In my bed. You fell asleep."
"During supper?"
"Yes."
"How mortifying." She flopped down and chuckled. "I’ve won the award for being the worst guest ever."
"I agree. As company, you’re an absolute bore."
"How long have I been out?"
"Six or seven hours."
"Hours!"
"Yes."
"What time is it?"
"Three."
"Why didn’t you send me on my way? Why bring me in here?"
"I’m a wretch, and I have no manners."
"No one saw me, did they? Please tell me none of the servants came in."
"No, no one saw you."
"Thank goodness. If my reputation had been shredded, you’d have had to marry me. It would be a cruel fate for you. I doubt you’d survive it."
"Very funny."
"What have you been doing?"
"Drinking. Watching you."
"My, my," she sarcastically said, "what interesting amusements you have in the country. I’m so dull, I’m amazed you could stay awake."
"It was definitely a chore."
She grinned. "We’re making progress. You’re not shouting at me."
"I don’t shout."
"Ha! You have the most annoying temper."
"I only display it when I’m incredibly aggravated."
"Yes, you’re a shouter."
"I am not." He frowned, then grinned. "Well, maybe a little."
"I’d better get out of here."
"I don’t want you to go."
"You’re not allowed to have an opinion."
"You didn’t complain when I was carrying you in my arms."
"Spoken like a typical male who always thinks he’s in the right."
"I always
think
I’m in the right because I always am."
She was quiet then, smiling, lost in thought. She was so pretty, and though it sounded silly, he was so happy just from being around her. Before he could reconsider, before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned over and kissed her.
It was very chaste, very innocent, but it was a kiss nonetheless. He probably shouldn’t have proceeded, but he wasn’t sorry.
"What did you do that for?" she asked as he drew away.
"I couldn’t resist. I’ve been contemplating it all night."
"You couldn’t possibly have been."
"I’m a man. I hardly ponder anything else."
"I’m sure that’s true. Has your curiosity been assuaged?"
"No. How about yours?"
"I wasn’t curious, so there was naught to assuage."
"You are such a liar. You’re fascinated by me. You’re enthralled."
"I might admit to being fascinated, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been dying to be kissed by you."
"
All
women are dying to be kissed by me. I’ve never met a female who wasn’t a trembling wreck, waiting for my amorous advance."
His brash comment made her laugh and laugh, and he liked how her eyes crinkled with merriment, how two dimples creased her cheeks.
As her mirth waned, he rolled on top of her, and she warily evaluated him.
"This isn’t a good idea," she insisted.
"Yes, it is."
"You’re taking advantage of me when I’m tired and my defenses are down."
"It’s the best time to get my way."
"We don’t even like each other."
"Maybe if I kiss you again, we’ll change our minds."
"I doubt it. You’re too much of a—"
"Grace?"
"What?"
"Be silent."
She was prepared to launch into a tirade of his faults, but he was in no mood to listen. She generated the oddest feelings, and he didn’t like to suffer so much emotional upheaval. He was solely interested in sexual contact, and if he could just get close enough, if he could focus on the physical, perhaps he could chase away the irksome sentiments that kept bubbling to the surface.
She was studying him, appearing resigned, as if she finally accepted that they’d arrived precisely where they were supposed to be. There was no use fighting the inevitable.
He pressed his lips to hers again, and the embrace was so sweet and so touching that they both sighed with pleasure. He deepened the kiss, his hands roaming over her body, massaging her arms and back.
Her hair had been pulled into a tidy chignon, but during her nap, the pins and combs had fallen out. The sight of those auburn tresses rattled him. Blood surged to his phallus.
An old wives’ tale—about redheaded women being more passionate—flew into his mind, and oh, how he hoped it turned out to be true.
He shifted onto his back so he was on the bottom and she was on the top. She was on her knees, straddling his lap, their loins crushed together.
He drew her nearer, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers at her breasts. He stroked and molded them, making her hiss and squirm as he pinched the nipples through the fabric of her dress.
His ardor was increasing at an alarming rate, which was very peculiar. Lust never ruled him. He never lost control or rushed to the end but she titillated him as no other female ever had.
He was working her skirt up her legs, and they were at a dangerous point. Another inch or two, he would learn how tight and wet she was, but he had enough sense remaining that he remembered he shouldn’t go that far.
Reluctantly, he halted his exploration, lifting her so she could stretch out next to him on the mattress. He tugged down her hem, then laid on his side so they were facing each other.
She’d participated with such skill and composure that he wondered if she was a virgin. The fact that she might not be, that she could engage in an affair with no chastity to surrender, brought a new wave of arousal.
What if they could have a full-on affair? What if she was amenable?
"That wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be," she said, reverting to their typical sarcastic banter.
He reached over and swatted her bottom.
"You’re deadly for my poor male ego."
"Yes, but then, it’s much too inflated. It could stand a bit of puncturing."
"You’ve never been married, have you?"
"No, never."
"I can certainly see why. Your harsh critiques would slay an unsuspecting fellow."
"Good thing you’re not unsuspecting then."
"Yes, a very good thing."
They quieted and calmed, and he linked their fingers as if they were adolescent sweethearts.
"Do you ever feel that we’ve met before?" she inquired.
He felt that way constantly, but would never admit it.
"Why would you ask that?"
"You just seem so…" She chuckled and stopped. "Don’t mind me. It’s late, and I’m growing maudlin."