Page 64 of Gentleman Jim

Maggie stepped forward between his legs. When he was seated, the two of them were of a similar height. It gave her a sense of command over the situation she didn’t entirely feel. “You’re like a great lion with a wounded paw. A wounded paw and a sore head.” She untied his banyan and pushed it off of his shoulders. “You don’t often drink too much, do you?”

“Rarely.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” She moistened her lips. Her mouth had gone dry. And no wonder. He was bared to the waist in front of her. An arresting sight. It made her cheeks heat and her stomach quiver. She forced herself to focus on his arm. To behave in a clinical fashion, not in the manner of a lady on the verge of having the vapors.

It wasn’t easy.

His chest might have been chiseled from a slab of marble. Every hollow and groove of his naked flesh was perfectly defined. As elegant with power as a statue of some Grecian God or hero. All lean muscles and tightly coiled strength.

The Nicholas of her youth had been spare and lanky. Far less intimidating to her senses. She wondered what he’d done to earn all these muscles. Jane had said he was a sportsman, but the smattering of faded scars on his chest and shoulders spoke less of pleasure than survival.

And he had survived.

More than that. Somehow, someway, he’d forged a life for himself—an entirely new identity. He’d become, in these ten years, a completely different man.

Maggie frowned as she examined the wound on his arm. The torn flesh was stitched together rather neatly with black thread. “Enzo’s work, I presume. I trust you cleaned it thoroughly beforehand?”

St. Clare made a hoarse sound of assent.

She touched the edge of his wound. He flinched under the brush of her fingertips, and again when she drew her knuckles down the hard length of his bare arm. She doubted whether his reaction was entirely provoked by pain. Indeed, the more she touched him, the more she suspected that, underneath his taut exterior, he was as dry-mouthed and quivery with longing as she was.

Her gaze met his. “Does it hurt very much?”

He looked steadily back at her. “It’s an agony.”

Her heart thumped hard. “For me, as well.” She slipped her hand into his, gratified to feel his fingers engulf hers. His clasp was hard and firm. Possessive. His head lowered as she leaned into him. “Nicholas—”

His mouth found hers, silencing her with a kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. His lips shaped to hers, rough with heat and want and raw masculine demand. A desperate kiss, far more than a sweet one.

And she melted.

There was no other way to describe it.

Her knees weakened and she melted against him. Into his arms, and into his kiss. Clinging to him as his mouth captured hers.

“Maggie,” he murmured low in his throat. “I can’t—”

“It’s all right.” Her arms circled his neck. And when he might have drawn away—mustering some scrap of gentlemanly restraint—she pulled his face back to hers and kissed him again.

He didn’t require a great deal of encouragement. Indeed, the more she responded to him, the more he demanded. She gave it willingly, her half-parted lips molding to his. He tasted of brandy and male heat. A thrilling combination. It swiftly robbed her of her senses.

St. Clare appeared to be experiencing a similar effect. He was breathing heavily, his big hands moving at her waist and back, curving around her neck to hold her steady as his mouth fused with hers.

One kiss led to another and another, the next one beginning before the first had come to its natural end. All the while, an ache built within her—a longing for something she couldn’t express. It made her as wild and desperate as he was, kissing him until she couldn’t catch her breath. Until she couldn’t seem to support the weight of her own body.

His arms wrapped around her in a powerful embrace. He lifted her onto the bed, settling her back against the rumpled pillows and coverlet. She had but a moment to gather her wits before he came down over her, caging her in his arms and kissing her again, hot and deep and breathless.

Goodness.

Goodness.

She gasped against his mouth. “Wait.”

“I’ve waited too long already.”

Her fingers twined in his hair, tugging at him weakly. “You’ll smother me.”

“I want to devour you.” He pressed hot kisses to her cheek and jaw and throat. “If you knew what I’ve suffered—”