Page 85 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“You’re early,” she said, shutting the door on the rest of the world.

He tried to be casual, checking the clock. Nine o’clock it read. “You’re on time, per usual.”

She strode forward, petticoats swaying seductively. He gripped the mantel, her swishing silks mild torture. Their time together on the pleasure barge lingered like the dregs of potent wine.

His pretty corset maker cupped his shaved jaw with aching gentleness. “You smell like... heaven.”

Pleasure rippled through his legs. He was about to be used for her pleasure.

“I visited Neville Warehouse. A cleanup was necessary.”

“Your visit to Neville Warehouse—to prepare for tomorrow’s sale, I presume.”

“Yes.”

Tension increased under his skin. Mary drew a delicate circle on his chin, the beginning of her campaign. She was focused, his corset maker. Her nimble hands outlining his shoulders and finding the shape of his chest, molding the wide curve of his pectoral muscles. Arousal marched just under his flesh, slow and steady.

Pale otherworldly eyes sought his.

“You will let me have my way with you, won’t you? To explore you and to...” She hesitated, a womanly smile growing in the shadows. “Well, you understand.”

“I do.”

His voice was lust-scratched, and they were both still properly dressed. Miss Fletcher was intent onchanging that. He submitted to her questing hands, untying his cravat in her unhurried way. A careful tug, one hand, then two. Tender sounds followed. Skin brushing cloth and linen slipping free, all of it dispatching a crackle of electricity down the length of his spine.

She sent his neckwear fluttering to the floor.

“Why, Mr. West, I believe I must inspect the goods.”

He grunted.Saucy wench.

He stared hungrily at her. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

Shite. He had it bad. They’d barely begun this assignation and he was already planning the next one.

Her hand slithered artfully to his placket. “As it happens, I do need more bones and baleen.”

Her eyes sparkled, vivid and playful.

She reached up and spread his shirt wider at the neck and buried her nose against him. He’d not touch her... not yet. Her butterfly kisses teased his chest. His eyelids were heavy. His head too. He wanted all her days and nights but he couldn’t think about that now. Blood moved, steamy and sluggish, in his veins, no part of him wishing to rush carnal delights. Clever hands freed buttons on his waistcoat. Mary was adept, plundering his neck, his earlobes, his collarbones, with her hot mouth.

He stood still and took her sweet attack.

A tender quake shook him. Mary had dressed herself in confident fashion.

“That first night, when you stood behind me,” she whispered, “I thought you smelled like an expensive mistake.”

Spectral gray eyes peered up at him. Open, feline,ready for anything and daring him to be the same. Mary reached for his placket and tugged, gently. The jolt shot to his penis. His ballocks ached and his pulse roared.

She flicked the first button like an expert tavern wench. “Ever since that night I’ve wondered what’s in your soap?”

Another button slipped free, and both her hands were on an expedition over his placket.

His grip on the mantel tightened, the stone edge digging into his palm. He was holding on with all his might.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?” she asked archly.

“Tell y—”