Page 112 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Together, they sank into the altar of her bed. Reading aloud to Cecelia was more intimate than sex. Snow-white linens warm from her body and their mingled scents wove into the fabric. His voice was the gentle intrusion. Holding her, his gift. She twined her legs with his, the goddess of Swan Lane at rest.

Her stone house was heaven on earth. He would gladly stay forever.

Each sentence he read was a question:See what happens if you let me stay?

The book unfolded a tale about a young woman raised by her widowed father in a distant castle. She spent her days reading novels of romance and adventure, believing the world was the same as in her books. When her father died, Arabella set her sights on London and Bath. There she found the world was not so kind. In her travails, Arabella threw herself into the Thames to escape a man who was chasing her.

As he read, Cecelia rested and her breath evened. This went on for at least two hours until the bedside candles had turned into flickering stumps and the sky filled with stars.

He tried to put the book down.

Cecelia scratched a soft line across his bare chest.

“Please, don’t stop.” Her muffled voice was over his heart.

He kissed the crown of her head and picked up where he left off: Arabella falling ill and a doctor treating her. But her true sickness was discontent—a woman battered by the world. The doctor set her right with a few words, as things happened in books,and young Arabella returned to her late father’s castle where she soon wed a man, as things happened in romance.

The story done, he blew out the candles. The drowsy Scotswoman snuggled close, her rosewater scent writing itself on his heart. He stroked a lock of her hair and stared into the darkness.The Adventures of Arabellacould beThe Adventures of Ceceliaexcept the hole in Miss MacDonald’s heart would not heal from token words.

He held her, unsure what could.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Her rebellious body knew what it wanted. Her mind was the reasoned partner, reminding her of what could not be. Tomorrow was Wednesday, the day Mr. Sloane must report to Fielding. And when she thought of that meeting, he was Mr. Sloane to her, not Alexander.

Who knew what he’d say about her? No promises had been made. Theirs was a suspended state. Secrets and humor shared. Intimate bed sport, certainly. Last night was a shift. He’d held her, demanding nothing and reading to her. His tenor was tattooed on her skin, his scent stuck to her soul. No man had taken her to bed to read a book.

Utterly diabolical.

A man like that needed her appreciation.

She scraped the hair between his legs. Featherlight, crinkled curls, warmth rising to her hand. Morning slivered through a gap in her bed curtains. Dark lashes fanned Alexander’s cheeks and whiskers etched his jaw. With one arm bent above his head, he was a dark-haired deity at rest in a sea of white.Covers landed at his waist. Under them, her hand explored him.

If she could collect this moment in a bottle, she would.

How had they come to this, their beguiling intimacy? There was no undoing it. She’d have better luck unsetting the sun. Alexander was inevitable. More than a tumble but he couldn’t be forever. Her heart twisted sadly, but she shoved that hurt aside. It was no use wasting precious time.

Nose to the counterpane, she breathed him in. His soap, his scent, was in the bed linens covering his stirring flesh. She kissed the magical rise.

“Kissed by a river nymph.” The sleep-grogged voice of her handsome reader.

“I can’t stop touching you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Except tomorrow is Wednesday,” she said.

She was on her side, her head propped up by one hand while she stroked him lovingly with the other. His cock thickened, velvet on ivory. Her touch was indolent, his eyes languorous.

“Which means today is Tuesday,” he said. “We have all day to ourselves.”

She scratched soft lines over his abdomen. “To do anything?”

He grunted, his compact muscles tensing. His shirt rucked up higher while she traced taut lines on the flesh arrowing to the dark tuft between his legs. She combed the curly nest, her fingernails grazing his skin. He twitched and the bed ropes cricked. Linens shushed as she nudged them lower and exposed him from his navel to his thighs. She kissed the mysteriousspot where hip and belly met, a taut muscled triangle sloping downward.

Alexander was the picture of male contentment.

“There is one thing I want.” She kissed his hip. Muscles flexed against her mouth.