Page 86 of The Mistletoe Dare

“I want to get out,” she said in a rush, making as if she would stand, but Rochford stopped her. He wanted the pleasure of washing her first, even if it killed him.

“No. Wait. Let me,” he managed, fighting through a haze of lust to remember how to speak.

He snatched up the soap and sponge and made a lather, and then reached for her foot. She made a little squeal of protest as he soaped her toes.

“Sorry, ticklish,” she admitted, making him smile, charmed beyond reason.

He washed her long, slender leg, fighting not to become distracted when he got to her shapely thigh, but concentrating long enough to reach for her other foot. He repeated the motion, and then soaped her hands, her wrists, moving up her arms to her shoulders and the back of her neck. He watched the rivulets of soap slide down her elegant spine until she lay back again, and he slid the sponge down between her breasts. At this point, he decided enough was enough and discarded the sponge, using his hands instead, caressing the wet, silken skin of her breasts as her nipples grew hard beneath his touch. He cupped and gently squeezed, toying with the taut little peaks as her breathing picked up. She let out a sigh of content, her head falling back against his chest, and he leaned down, pressing his lips to her shoulder.

She’d told him he was impatient, and that was the truth, but he’d never felt such desperate need in all his days. He could not take any more torture. Reaching into the bath, he lifted her up, water sluicing everywhere, soaking him as he stood.

“Rochford!” she squealed, but she was laughing as she clung to his neck, so he ignored her protests. “Don’t you dare put me on the bed sopping wet,” she warned.

Rochford let out a groan but set her down before the fire, snatching up a large towel and wrapping her in it. He dried her, his movements as slow and careful as he could manage as she turned about for him, her tawny eyes watchful as he attended to her.

“You make a wonderful lady’s maid,” she teased him.

“I know,” he replied, kneeling to dry her feet and then making her gasp by pressing his mouth to her navel and tickling into the little divot with his tongue.

She snorted and grabbed at his hair. “Oh, th-that tickles.”

He paused, looking up at her. “What about here? Does this tickle?” he asked, his voice low as he licked along the crease of her thigh where the skin was so very fine.

She gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Or here,” he continued, repeating the action on the other side and then nuzzling into the soft, damp curls between her legs. Her breathing was coming fast now as he pressed a kiss to the seam of her sex. Rochford looked up again, to be certain she was not afraid, or horrified, but her eyes were dark, her lips parted as she stared down at him. He smiled then and kissed her again and then slid his tongue between the delicate folds to the tiny bud hidden beneath.

She made a soft exclamation of pleasure and surprise, and his own body ached with need at the sound. He remained where he was, on his knees, toying with her until she was clutching at his shoulders.

“Can’t stand up,” she said breathlessly.

Rochford let out a little huff of laughter, pleased with himself, and then stood and picked her up again. She stared at him hazily.

“I have never been carried about so much in my life. I might protest that I do have legs, but they don’t appear to be working.”

“That’s quite all right, duchess. I like carrying you,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“I know.”

He laid her down on the bed, giving himself a moment to enjoy the sight of her. Her dark hair spilled out over the white linen, her pearly skin glowing in the lamplight, the triangle of soft curls between her legs drawing his attention. Rochford moved quickly, stripping off his trousers and small clothes and climbing onto the bed.

“Good God!”

He paused, startled at the exclamation as his bride sat up, staring.

“Is something wrong?” he asked in alarm.

Georgie shook her head, but her eyes were on stalks. Realising he was being inspected, Rochford held still, though he was feeling unaccountably nervous. After all, if his face and the scars hadn’t put her off, he must be doing fine, because there was nothing wrong with the rest of him.

“Everything as it should be?” he asked, watching her with caution.

She let out a soft exclamation. “Oh, y-yes,” she managed, her voice faint. “You are a very fine sight, Alden. Very fine indeed.”

Her words and her unmistakable admiration unlocked something inside him, freeing him of some toxic mixture of pent-up anxiety and shame that he’d held close for so long. He smiled, feeling strangely vulnerable, as if this was a first time for him too, though she was the virgin.

“Do you want me then, Georgie?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Of course I want you. I’ve wanted you since you ate the shortbread I gave you. Honestly, the look on your face. You looked like you’d died and gone to heaven, but would you admit it was the best thing you’d ever tasted? Oh, no. It was the most adorable thing, watching you try to pretend it hadn’t impressed you.”