Page 15

“More whisky,” she mused. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mister Rollo?”

“It’s Lord Rollo,” he deadpanned.

She thought that, just then, she might be lighting the room with her glow. She craved uncovering Will’s sense of humor even more than she craved a hot shower.

She pulled her eyes from him, turning her focus to the bowl of beef stew he’d ladled out for her. She dug her fork in and stirred, and the most heavenly aroma filled her senses. “I think my mouth is actually, literally watering.” She closed her eyes, moaning as she took a bite.

“Ohmygosh.” Her eyes shot back open and she set to rifling through the bowl to spear a bit with her fork. “What is this?” She leaned over and, without thinking, held it to Rollo’s mouth.

“I . . .” He looked at it, uncertain.

“Come on, just taste it,” she said, hoping he’d open his mouth soon, because she was about to feel pretty silly.

His gaze met hers, and what she’d put out there as a blithe gesture became something charged, erotic.

The flickering light caught Will’s hazel eyes just so, making them seem golden.

He opened his mouth slowly, leaning forward, and Felicity flashed to a thousand different fantasies.

Of him leaning toward her, just like that, to taste her .

Taking her hand in his, opening his mouth just that way, to kiss her palm. Her neck. Her, all over.

He wrapped his lips around the fork. She watched them, those fine, perfect lips, slowly taking the food into his mouth.

The sensation of wet heat widening her, opening her, suffused Felicity. She tensed her thighs, suddenly aware of a maddening need she had to satisfy.

His eyes pierced her with their intensity. What would he be thinking? She faltered, began to pull her hand back.

Will touched her wrist, gently took the fork from her fingers. His touch burned her skin.

He cleared his throat. “That was a turnip. But you’re doing it all wrong.” His voice was husky, ragged. “The neeps are best”—he carefully dug in his bowl, snagging careful proportions of stew—“when you get just enough with the onions”—he brought the fork to her lips—“and the meat.”

She opened her mouth and tasted. “Oh, yes,” she groaned, and saw his body gird at the sound she made.

He wanted her. She saw it in his eyes, there in the lamplight, feeding her carefully.

“More,” she urged him. She would show him how much he wanted her, how it was okay to want her. Just the thought of it had her body throbbing. “Feed me more.”

Hesitating, he fed her one more bite, then grew silent. The air was electric, as if they’d crossed some invisible threshold from which there was no return.

Rollo was quiet as he finished his meal and Felicity saw his eyes flick to the door. “No way, Viking.” She’d seen the sex in his eyes. They flashed back to hers, surprised. “No retreat yet.”

“I . . .” he faltered.

He wanted her, and so he also wanted to flee. Will’s eyes shot to the door.

Uh-oh.

He straightened, his hands shifting to his thighs.

He was getting ready to leave. She wouldn’t let him. Here goes nothing. “You’re not going yet.”

Felicity rose, slinked to his side of the table, and settled onto Will’s lap.

“What are you . . .” Rollo’s body didn’t just still, it seized, every muscle hardening to stone. His hands gripped the edges of his chair, as if bracing for impact. “What are you doing?”

“I want that cake,” she said, her sultry tone suggesting a whole lot more than cherry cake.

Felicity leaned forward to cut a slice, using the opportunity to nestle her rump more snugly in his lap.

She knew she’d shocked him, and there was no going back now.

Because she would kiss her Viking before the night was out.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little cake, is there? ”

His eyes ran down the length of her, concealed in slightly soiled pink silk. They landed on her feet, peeking pale and delicate from beneath her hem, and he thought he wasn’t so sure there was nothing wrong.

This felt so good, there had to be something wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she said, mistaking his silence. She waggled her feet, and her shifting weight atop his thighs was pure torture. “I hope it’s okay. My bare feet I mean.”

He realized he’d never in his life seen a woman’s naked foot before Felicity’s. His mouth went dry.

“I can’t bear to wear those tight little slippers. I never wear shoes inside.”

Rollo couldn’t move. He thought he might have actually tried, but he couldn’t budge. It was a wonder he was able to breathe.

“And I totally need a pedi.”

“A . . . ?”

“A pedicure.” She raised a leg, wiggling her toes. Her dress shifted a few inches up her calf.

He had no idea what she was chattering about.

He couldn’t imagine a more perfect foot. Surely there didn’t exist toes more perfect, more adorable, than these.

He inched his hands to the sides of his thighs. He was so close to stroking her legs. He imagined sweeping his palms down to touch that sweet, pale foot.

“Look at me, Will,” she whispered.

There —she’d spoken his name again. Her voice was cloaked in sweetness and innocence, and it set his body on fire. She gave him a little smile and parted her lips.

She whispered to him, was whispering such sweet things, he thought perhaps he’d died and transcended to some glorious heaven, a place of his dreams peopled only with this exquisite, lone angel.

“Do you think I’m kissable, Will?” She gently took one of his hands, studied it, then held it in hers.

God help me.

His whole body quickened.

Did he think she was kissable? God help him, did he ever. He’d been fantasizing about it from the very first. Kissing her, touching her, nuzzling her . . .

Ravaging her.

But he’d not thought it could ever happen.

“Because,” she said in the barest whisper, “I think I’d really like to kiss you now.”