Chapter Nineteen
Dougal was very,very interested.
Dougal was also fairly certain he was hallucinating and needed a moment to make sure this was all real. He’d never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Meg. In his bed. In his house, in his life.
In his bedroom, at this very moment, trying to slink out unnoticed, her hair in a sensible braid, her toes bare under her hem. Desire hummed through him. Something primal unfurled, demanding that he lock the door, that he barricade it with every stick of furniture he owned in order to keep her from leaving. He wouldn’t, of course. But Lord, did he want to. His voice was hoarse, and very nearly desperate when he spoke her name.
“Meg.”
Just her name. It might take a moment for his brain to find other words that weren’t Meg or want or need.
She hesitated in the doorway.
He was close enough to touch her, to wrap his fingers around her wrist, in her hair. He wasn’t too proud to admit his breath stuttered in his chest. She wanted to spend the night. Wanted him, born in an alleyway, gutter rat, millhouse worker. With his scarred hands and scarred past, he knew full well that he wasn’t good enough for her.
It didn’t seem to matter as much tonight. He wouldn’t let it matter. Not when she was so close.
Not close enough.
“Meg, are you sure?”
She was blushing, pink moving from her cheeks to her chest, dipping below the white fabric of her nightgown. He wanted to follow it with his tongue.
She couldn’t quite look at him, but she nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Your reputation…” Why was he still talking? Worse, possibly talking her out of it?
She finally looked at him, defiant, hungry, trusting. It floored him. Made him want to marry her right here at midnight between the velvet bed and the open door. “Hang my reputation. I deserve something just for me.”
She was fierce then, in a way he hadn’t yet seen, beyond her bloodthirsty protective instincts, beyond her need to fight bullies at every turn. This time it was about her, and them, and he could have eaten it like cake. Could eat her like cake.
His smile grew, slow, promising.
“Then close the door, love.”
He spoke sosoftly, promising wicked delicious things with just the intonation of his voice and every word sent tingles to her core. Close the door, love.
He did want her, at least for one night. It was all she wanted. Well, it was all she could reasonably expect, and it would have to be same thing. It would have to be enough.
She pulled the door shut and turned to face him but couldn’t quite bring herself to close the distance between them, however much she wanted to, however much that distance was instantly offensive to her. Nervous anticipation heightened the curl of lust in her belly.
He padded towards her, lean and gilded in the candlelight. He wore the plain rough trousers he preferred and a simple lawn shirt that hinted at the shape of his chest, the strength of his arms. The muscles in her thighs went hot and loose and he wasn’t even touching her yet. His mouth quirked in that crooked smile she loved so much.
His fingertips were so gentle on her neck that she shivered. “Dougal.”
He trailed them up into her hair, tightening slightly, releasing. His mouth brushed over hers, just as gentle, just as devastating. Her every nerve turned to fireflies, glowing, sparking, fluttering. She leaned into him, nipping at him until he finally deepened the kiss, until his tongue slid along hers, teasing, tempting. She clutched at his arms, just to feel the play of muscles there.
He lowered his head and closed his lips over her nipple, the thin cotton dampening as he used the flat of his tongue over the tightening bud. The combination of the cool cloth and hot mouth made her moan. “There is too much of this dress,” he muttered.
She couldn’t agree more.
He loosened the faded blue ribbon of her neckline, his thumbs sliding along her collarbones. The ribbon was frayed, the material nearly transparent in spots. “Meg, why are the clothes of a viscount’s daughter so worn through?”
She felt like she might come apart at the seams, just like her nightdress as he pushed it over her shoulders, and he was asking questions about fashion.
“They’re just clothes.” It was a struggle to focus on anything but his hands on her bare skin, the hardness of him just out of reach, teasing.
“That’s not an answer.” He sounded stern even as the fabric dropped to the floor, pooling around her ankles. She was naked, completely naked, and he still wore every stitch of clothes. There was something wonderful about that, something that hinted at wickedness.