Page 9 of The Viscount, the Blacksmith, and the Lady
He pushed her hand aside. “Not this time. We must return belowstairs.”
“Are you certain?”
He moaned, then grinned. “No, but I will be brave.” All he’d sought was her pleasure, and the pleasure he took in giving it to her.
He helped her off the desk, and she wobbled as she stood, her limbs languid and still trembling from the fervor of their union. She looked at his breeches, and he shifted his cock, but there was no comfort to be found until he softened. “We’ll descend the steps slowly, I suppose.”
He kissed her once more, a soft press of lips that held the echoes of their earlier passion. Even that gentle touch made him stir. He stepped back and cleared his throat. One day soon, he’d have her in his bed.
With brisk movements, Simon smoothed the front of his waistcoat and adjusted his cravat, and helped Xenia straighten her gown. Anyone who looked too closely would know what they’d been up to, but they were out of time.
“Shall we?” he offered. She tucked her hand around his arm and left the room at his side.
When they reentered the kitchen, the others turned toward them and exchanged smiles and nods as if they hadn’t disappeared. It seemed to Xenia that every word Simon spoke to someone, every courteous nod, was laced with the thrill of their shared secret. And as they parted ways to attend to different tasks, the air between them was charged like after lightning struck. She should feel sated after the way he’d pleasured her, but she wanted more.
When the last of the baskets was loaded into the wagon that would take them to the church for distribution, Xenia waved goodbye to the others who piled into the wagon or Simon’s carriage. She waved at him where he stood on at the door of his home and wished at the very least, she could blow him a kiss. Instead, she urged her horse down the winding path that led back to the village,
The memory of Simon’s touch still lingered on her body, and she smiled. She should have insisted Simon and Owen make love to her years ago. There was no comparison to the other men she’d been with, who’d seemed more concerned with pleasing themselves.
Xenia knew they needed to be discreet in their liaisons to keep from drawing attention to themselves, but everyone knew they were close friends. No one gossiped about how often she went to the river with the men when they fished. Although, her mother had said it wasn’t proper that she should continue to do so. That was at least two years ago, and Mama hadn’t pressed the issue.
Without warning, her horse’s hind foot clipped its front hoof, loosening the shoe, and Xenia almost tumbled off. She grabbed the pommel to keep her seat until the mare caught her footing. The animal limped for a short distance until Xenia halted her. Dismounting, she examined the creature’s hoof and confirmed the shoe was loose. “Looks like we’ll be making an unscheduled stop, old girl.” She patted the mare’s neck before leading her toward the heart of the village.
The clang of metal striking metal grew louder as Xenia approached the familiar structure of Owen’s smithy. The red glow of the furnace cast dancing shadows on the walls, and a wave of heat enveloped her as she stepped into the open doorway.
There stood Owen, hard at work, his shirt discarded to combat the sweltering environment. Every muscle rippled under his sweat-slicked skin as he swung the hammer on the thin metal piece on the anvil. His thin hair clung to his brow.
He drew back from the anvil, his gaze catching hers as he wiped his forearm across his forehead—dark eyes alight with a blend of surprise and something more enigmatic. He set the hammer aside, the sound of metal on metal ceasing abruptly, leaving a palpable silence in its wake.
“Zee,” he greeted with a broad smile. “What brings you around?”
“Trouble of the four-legged variety,” she quipped, gesturing to her horse outside. “She has a loose shoe.”
“Let’s have a look then,” Owen said, stepping closer with a purposeful stride. His hands were sure as they lifted the mare’s hoof, his touch gentle as he worked.
Xenia watched him, her own hands itching to glide over the expanse of his broad shoulders and trace the outlines of muscle etched into his form. She imagined tugging at the waist of his breeches to fondle that one favorite part of him, waiting for that moment when he might set aside his tools and turn his full attention to her.
But she held herself back, caught between the memory of Simon’s delightful caresses and the raw vitality emanating from Owen. How could she be hungry for Owen so soon after Simon had pleased her?
Owen straightened from removing the old shoe on Zee’s horse and turned to find the woman watching him from inside the smithy. She licked her lips, and he could swear he felt her tongue on his cock. That was something he hadn’t tried at the river, letting her suck him. He should remedy that. Soon.
He went inside for a new shoe, but Zee hovered close as he worked. He turned to say something, but her fingers brushed a single drop of sweat from the center of his chest above the leather apron he wore.
The simple touch sent a spark through Owen, igniting something deep within him. He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped closer to her. “There’s something special in your look today. Your cheeks are bright, your eyes sparkling.”
Before she could respond, his lips claimed hers, a kiss that was at once gentle and demanding. She melted into him, her hands boldly exploring his chest and shoulders. He was dirty, sweaty, and probably smelled disgusting, but none of that was reflected in how she reacted to his kiss.
She pressed herself against his length, her hands sliding beneath his leather apron. Her fingertips brushed against the waist of his breeches, teasing the edge, daring to venture further.
Owen groaned into her mouth, and her tongue became more fervent in its exploration of his mouth. His hands roamed with growing boldness, fueled by the urgency of her touch. He cupped her breast before recalling how grimy he was.
Zee didn’t seem to mind the dirt. Her fingertips slipped beneath the placket of his breeches, and his groin tightened. It was late afternoon.... could he close the smithy and take her next door to his house?
Before he could decide, Zee’s horse whickered and a man’s voice spoke to the mare. Footsteps sounded on the cobblestones outside.
“Owen! Are you there?” called the voice, piercing through the haze of their intimacy.
Zee’s breath hitched, her eyes wide with the realization of their compromised seclusion. She pushed against Owen’s chest. Her breathing was heavy, as was his own.