Kathryn Smith (14 page)

He finished the sandwich. “Because you like it.”

“I do not.” How indignant she sounded. Whom was she trying to convince?

He shrugged and stole another sandwich. “The way you look at me says you do.”

She denied it, even though she knew there was truth in his words. “I am simply not accustomed to such speech.”

“Of course you are not.” He folded his arms again. “You are so wonderfully prim sometimes, Moira. It is delightful.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And you are extremely vexing at times, Wynthrope.”

“Part of my charm.” Oh how that little smirk irked her at times!

“Indeed.” She lifted another sandwich to her lips. He watched as she did so. Feeling brazen, Moira moistened her lips with her tongue before slowly taking a bite. She
chewed and swallowed, aware of his gaze on her mouth the entire time.

“And what will you do for me?” she asked.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She smiled sweetly. She was playing with fire here, but she couldn’t help it. She liked it. “If I soften myself up,
sweeten
myself for you, what will you do for me?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Anything you want. I would be entirely at your command. All you have to do is say the word and you may do to me whatever you please.”

Moira’s stomach fluttered. He was serious. This conversation was getting out of hand. Forcing a flirtatious smile, she kept her tone light. “And that word would be?”

Wynthrope leaned toward her until his mouth was right beside her ear. She could feel his breath on her skin, feel the heat radiating off him. Was there a man on the earth who had ever smelled this good?

“Yes.” His voice was little more than a breeze, but it tore through her like a cyclone.

Trembling, she met his gaze as he raised his head. His eyes were so dark they were indigo, so intense they seemed fathomless.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t remember how to make her tongue and lips work together to form words. Dumbly she glanced down at the plate in her hands. What had she been thinking, loading it with all these sandwiches? There was no way she could eat them all—not with her stomach so tied in knots.

“Would you like me to help you eat those?” There was no hint of mockery or innuendo in his tone.

Moira nodded, raising her chin. She was in grave danger of falling in love with this man. Did that frighten her? Thrill her? Make her want to weep?

“
Yes
,” she murmured, and took another sandwich for herself.

After dining with North and Octavia on Christmas Day, Wynthrope departed for Moira’s. He had yet to determine where she kept the tiara, but that wasn’t something he was going to think about this evening. This evening, he promised himself, was strictly for the pleasure of Moira’s company.

This was becoming a regular occurrence, his spending an evening with her at her home. He wasn’t kidding himself—only part of it was his search for the tiara. The only reason he gave a damn about the tiara was to protect North and Dev. If he really wanted to search the house, he’d just wait until she was out or asleep and break in. No, he spent so much time there because he craved Moira’s company.

She was waiting for him in the parlor, clad in a simple gown of violet muslin. His heart leaped at the sight of her. Only one day had passed since he had last seen her, and it felt as though he had been deprived of her for months.

This was not good, not good at all, and yet he couldn’t make his heart believe it.

“Are you ready to play, or would you like a drink first?” she asked.

Smiling at her readiness, Wynthrope offered her the small ebony box he had brought with him. “I have something for you first.”

Moira’s expression was one of dismay. “Oh, you shouldn’t have! I do not have anything for you.”

It had never occurred to him that she might. “That is of no consequence. Please, take it.”

She did, her reluctance giving way to delightful curiosity. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me until you see what is inside.”

Like a foolish boy he held his breath as she opened the box, exhaling only when her face lit like a candle with pleasure.

“Oh! It is beautiful.” Reverently, she withdrew the small, intricately carved ivory angel from the velvet lining.

Wynthrope puffed his chest, inordinately pleased with himself. “I thought you might like it.”

She came to him, her face aglow, and kissed his cheek. That kiss alone was more gift than he deserved. “I love it. Thank you.”

Moira set the angel and the box on the little table near the chair where he knew she most often sat, giving it a little caress before turning to him. How happy she looked. What he would give to see her always so content.

How her expression would change if she knew the truth about him.

But he wasn’t going to think of that tonight. Tonight he wasn’t a coldhearted bastard out to relieve her of a treasure. Tonight he was just the pathetic man who couldn’t get enough of her. The lucky man allowed to be this close to her.

They sat in their customary places, with him playing white and her playing black. How fitting that she would play black when he’d long thought of her as the black queen. Wynthrope, playing white, made the first move.

It was Moira, however, who ended their game by eventually taking his king.

“You won.” He was more shocked than she was. Realization dawned. “You’ve been practicing!”

She turned the sweetest shade of pink, but didn’t look the least bit contrite. “So?”

He laughed then. “Good enough. Well, as the winner you get to name your prize. What will you ask of me?” With his luck she would probably make him read to her from some horrid romance, or worse, poetry.

Her blush deepened. She truly was so maidenly for a wid
owed woman ten years married. “I want you to kiss me,” she informed him in a somewhat shaky voice.

She what? This was an interesting turn of events. So his patience was finally paying off, was it? Wynthrope’s heart leaped in anticipation. She wanted him. He would have to go slow. He didn’t want to appear too eager.

He leaned across the table and kissed her cheek. “There you go.”

She flushed even more. How red could she get before she burst into flame? “On my mouth.”

Smiling inwardly, Wynthrope leaned across the table again and brushed his lips over hers. He wanted to devour her, but resisted. He sat back. “How was that?”

She looked positively murderous now. “That is not how I meant and you know it.”

Feigning ignorance, he blinked at her. “I am afraid I have no idea what you mean. Perhaps you should show me.”

She glared at him. She knew that he was deliberately toying with her. If he wasn’t careful she would turn the tables on him just as she did at Wynter’s party the night before. Perhaps he would do better to not be careful. She did turn the tables on him in such a
stimulating
fashion.

Pushing back her chair, Moira rose to her feet and came around the table to where he sat. Wynthrope pushed back his own seat as she approached.

“Stand up,” she ordered.

He smiled lazily. “I do not feel like it. Why do you not sit on my lap?”

For a moment he thought she might tell him to go straight to Hades, but then a strange glint lit her eyes, and he knew he was in for torment.

Deliberately, she lowered herself onto his lap, squirming against him in a pretense of making herself comfortable, but he knew it was for no other reason than to drive him to the
brink of insanity by rubbing him to full erection with that delectable bottom of hers. For a woman so unsure of herself at times, she certainly had a natural knowledge of seduction.

“Are you comfortable?” he growled when she finally stilled.

She smiled sweetly. “Yes, thank you.” Taking his face in her hands, she tilted his chin, stroked his jaw with soft fingers. And when she began to gently massage his scalp, it was all he could do not to close his eyes in ecstasy.

“You like this, do you not?” Her fingers combed through his hair. “You seem to enjoy it.”

“I do,” he answered, finally giving in and closing his eyes. “My grandmother used to brush my hair for hours when I was a boy.”

“Were you close to her?”

“I adored her. I never had to worry about pleasing her or being good enough for her. She loved all four of us equally and just as we were.”

The fingers in his hair stilled. “You were very fortunate to have her.”

Wynthrope opened his eyes at the longing in her voice. “I was.” Looking at her, he realized that Moira hadn’t had anyone to make up for her parents’ stupidity as he had. No one to make up for thoughtless remarks or blatant favoritism. No wonder she tried so hard. No wonder she sometimes still felt inferior. No wonder she had wasted herself on a marriage of convenience when she deserved so much more.

Had her husband ever realized how blessed he’d been to have her, this woman who could make a man feel ten feet tall with a simple glance?

“You amaze me, Moira Tyndale.”

He had astonished her—that was obvious in her wide eyes and soft gasp. “I do?”

“I have no idea how you could have grown up where you did and turned out so good. You make me ashamed.”

“But you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Her confidence in him cut him to the quick. “You have no idea what I have done thinking it was within my right to do it. I spent so much of my life feeling bitter, carrying a huge chip on my shoulder, when I had no right to feel so sorry for myself. I had my brothers and my grandmother. Who did you have?”

Her smile was kind. “I had myself. And I had my aunt. I did not see her very often, but her visits and her letters gave me something to hold on to. Do not pity me, Wynthrope, I will not stand for it.”

Something gave way in his heart as he stared into her eyes. It was as though the hardened shell around it cracked and splintered, the shards piercing him from every angle.

“I’d like to kiss you now,” he murmured. “Will you allow it?”

“Yes.” Her face neared his. “Did you not tell me I only had to say that word to have you at my command?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I did.”

Her lips brushed his. “Then kiss me. I command it.”

Lifting his arms, he caught her head in his hands, holding her still as he claimed her mouth with his own. She was warm, moist, and sweet. He should take his time, cajole her into surrender, but finesse escaped him. He trembled with hunger for her, his muscles quivering with restraint. His tongue assaulted hers as her kiss consumed him.

Her hands caught at his coat, undoing the buttons to slide inside. Could she feel the erratic pounding of his heart against her palm? Could she feel his hardness against the back of her thighs? Had she any idea that he was practically beside himself with wanting her?

He had to do something to alleviate the tension threatening to overpower them both. Releasing her head, Wynthrope reached down and clutched at her skirt, pulling the soft fabric upward. Shoving his hand beneath, he pushed the layers of fabric aside, sliding his fingers up the silky stocking covering her calf, past a garter, to the satiny flesh of her warm, bare inner thigh. Moira jumped.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, breathless against his mouth.

“You said you wanted to give me a present,” he reminded her, his breathing equally as shallow. “This is what I want, Moira. I want to touch you. Open for me.”

Her eyes wide and dark, her gaze held his as her legs parted for his hand. He watched her face as he brushed his fingers along the springy curls there. She gasped, her body leaping at the contact. Her eyelids fluttered, color rose in her cheeks as he slowly stroked the fine, dampening hair.

Christ, but he wanted her! He wanted her beneath him, on top of him, any way he could have her, but most of all, he wanted to see her face when he gave her pleasure. It meant more to him than he could ever say to know that he could arouse such sensations in her.

He slid his fingers along those moist curls, easing one into the cleft between. He watched as her brow puckered and her mouth parted. She was hot and wet and slick against his finger, her flesh clutching at him like an eager hand. She would be deliciously, maddeningly tight, he knew that instinctively.

Her thighs parted as far as her skirts would allow—enough for him to ease his hand fully between her legs. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the length of his finger into her, his own body tightening as he watched her expression change ever so slightly. Her fingers tightened on his lapels and her hips began to move, setting the rhythm for his now wet, questing fingers. Beneath her, his cock pulsated with
need, irritated by the friction of his small clothes, demanding to be released. Gritting his teeth, Wynthrope concentrated on Moira’s pleasure rather than his own discomfort.

Easily, his thumb found the apex of her sex as his finger moved inside her, stroking the hooded nub. His entire body throbbed in response when Moira cried out, lifting herself against his hand. Driven by his own lust to hear her cries, his desire to feel her spasm around his finger, Wynthrope worked her body with a teasing but insistent rhythm.

Still gripping his coat with one hand, Moira slid the other between them, finding the hard ridge that pushed against the fall of his trousers. He groaned as she caressed him through the fabric, and when her fingers tore at the fastenings, he made no move to stop her.

Her fingers closed around the naked length of him, eager and unschooled. They caressed and squeezed and made his sac tighten with their sheer enthusiasm.

Shifting her weight, she moved on his lap so that she was on his thigh more than his groin, giving herself better access to his heated cock. The hand at her head now slid down to her back, supporting her as she stroked him.

“Up and down,” he growled. If she wanted to jack him, he wasn’t going to stop her, but he was going to make certain she did it right. Tentatively, then with more confidence, she began moving her fist up and down to the cadence his own hand set between her legs.

“That’s it.” He gasped as the tightening in his groin became more insistent. He increased the pressure of his thumb, drawing a low moan from her lips.