Page 6 of All Scot and Bothered

Life had taught him a man must rein in his appetites with an iron fist and unshakable self-mastery lest he be controlled or irreparably damaged by them.

And yet here he was, a captive to his cock, posturing to hide his body’s instant—nay, violent—reaction to the sight of the buxom and mystifying Miss Cecelia Teague licking truffle chocolate from her ungloved fingers.

In the middle of a soiree at Castle Redmayne, no less.

Despite his stern inner admonishments to keep hisnotice elsewhere, his gaze was tugged back to her by an invisible rope over and again to linger at her heart-shaped features.

He needn’t waste time wondering why. She was exactly the sort of women he’d always found himself drawn to. One with more curves than straight lines. Lush. Luxurious, even. Her skin the color of rich cream, her lips the hue of his favorite cordial.

All wrapped in a silky violet confection that contrasted with her extraordinary copper ringlets shining in the luster of the chandeliers.

Her azure gaze was a paradox. Wide and candid… but mercurial.

Damned if he didn’t find that the most intriguing combination.

A living sin, was Cecelia Teague. A wicked brew of both innocence and indulgence. The female equivalent of a truffle.

The tip of her finger disappeared into her mouth as she sucked the last bit of flavor from her skin.

Ramsay swallowed a tortured groan, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood as he crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Shifted positions and crossed them in the opposite direction.

Seven. Fucking. Years.

Or is it longer?The entirety of his thirties seemed to be one long endless span of labor and loneliness, bereft of the splendid visual feast that was the naked female form.

And what a delectable morsel Miss Teague would make, after all the laces, ruffles, and ridiculous contraptions were peeled away, leaving only honest curves, intriguing dimples, fine hair, and supple, pillow-soft skin.

How had he gone so long devoid of the warm weight ofa woman’s thighs testing the strength of his shoulders as he brought her to shuddering completion?

Long enough to nearly forget the feel of a woman’s sex. The secret moisture, the yielding, intimate flesh, the unholy pleasure.

Cecelia Teague bent to select another truffle from the crystal dish, affording him a view of her more than generous décolletage. Every wicked thing he’d done, every act he’d fantasized about or even conceived of flashed through his mind in a heart-pounding storm of lust.

Sweet Christ, those breasts would tempt a saint. They’d spill over his hands like fresh cream.

A trickle of sweat slid from his nape into his collar as he inhaled sharply, imagining the warm, inviting scent of the downy skin in the cove between them. The salt of it under his tongue, the unbearable softness—

“May I offer you a taste, my lord Ramsay?”

It took him an eternity to process Miss Teague’s casual suggestion. Finally, he blinked and eloquently inquired, “Er—pardon?”

“You were staring as though you desired them.” Her spectacles magnified her curiously dark eyelashes as they lowered shyly across her cheek. “And I grant you, they taste every bit as good as you’re imagining they would. Creamy and rich, with a hint of salt. You’ve never had better, I’d wager my life on it.”

All the moisture abandoned Ramsay’s mouth. His gaze flicked down to her breasts and he swallowed, dragging them back up to her earnest expression.

Surely she wasn’t offering a taste of her flesh. Not…here. He was no stranger to the propositions of society maidens and matrons, alike, but never so explicitly.

His turgid arousal twitched and strained, making nomistake about what his unruly libido hoped he would do with her offer.

He glanced helplessly around at the soiree’s other guests, milling like over-bright hummingbirds at a lilac bush, never staying in one place for too long.

Had anyone else marked her shocking proposition?

“Alexandra and I share a weakness for decadent chocolate, you see.” She selected one from the dish with the discretion a jeweler would show a selection of diamonds. “These are imported from Belgium. The texture is indescribably above par, and just wait until you find out what’s at the core.”

Confounded, Ramsay stared at the chocolate, cursing himself for nine kinds of fool.

She’d been offering him a truffle. Of course she had. What on earth had led him to think she’d proposed a taste of her flesh? Perhaps he’d been so mesmerized by her husky voice, like smoke swirling over the finest brandy, the words hadn’t registered properly.