“He is. And impatient, too.”
He laughed and she joined him while a fierce frown burrowed its way between Tris’s brows. Gone was the light of desire and humor that had radiated from him an hour before. Her next encounter with him was unlikely to continue along that same vein. He’d known she would do something to prevent Henry’s demise, though the near-tragedy must have slipped his mind for a short time at least. Added to questions about her knowledge of the language of China and a tattoo of the same triggered, she’d soon face the same burning questions he’d wanted the answers to days ago.
Hannah, contrarily, merely looked intrigued and pleased. “How wonderful for Sung-Li to have someone who shares his language! I confess I tried to learn but found it impossibly arduous.”
No arguing that. It was a difficult language.
“I want to hear all about it. Mama will be interested as well.” Hannah linked her arm through hers and drew her down the hall. As Brontë had anticipated, Tris looked ready to argue. “Oh pooh, Tris! You can glower all you like. You’ve monopolized Brontë’s time all afternoon. You can have her later.”
Too bad having her would likely be the furthest thing from his mind.
Chapter 19
TRIS TAPPED ON BRONTË’S door when in truth he’d prefer to break it down. Beat his fists against it and demand answers. Waking the dozens of people who occupied bedchambers nearby wasn’t his goal, however. If anyone saw him at her door, the worst would be assumed, and her reputation would be ruined. Fine thanks that would be for what she’d done today, the vague details of which kept him wide awake when he ought to be sleeping like everyone else.
He wanted — nay, needed — to know what she’d done to transform a man suffering from gruesome suffocation back into his familiar, flippant friend in a matter of minutes. He’d never seen the like. Not even Sung-Li possessed such miraculous skills no matter what everyone else believed they’d witnessed today.
Then to speak to him in Chinese...?
Bloody hell, he knew nothing about this woman.
That ended tonight.
He knocked again, then tried the knob. Finding it unlocked, he turned it and pushed the door open anticipating a darkened room with Brontë asleep in bed. A bedside lamp shone upon a rumpled but empty bed. From the open door to the adjoining room, a brighter light cast a rectangle of light across the floor. There was a splash of water from within. Muted humming so off-key he couldn’t stop the smile that vanquished the frown that had lingered on his lips for hours.
The sound stayed his feet as well, though his initial impulse had been to barge across the room and shake a few vital truths from her. Instead he locked the door and leaned back against it, listening to the tuneless mumble.
“Uh-huh, oh yeah. Uh-huh.”
His chest heaved with suppressed laughter at the muffled rhythm. Her mouth might have been filled with cotton to produce such a dreadful noise. Whatever Brontë was doing in there, he’d heard cats in heat with more musical talent.
A shadow fell across the beam of light signaling her imminent arrival. She appeared in the portal with a skip and a spin, bobbing her head up and down. Pulling a toothbrush from her mouth, she twirled it in the air before popping it back in for a vigorous scrub. Hence the muffled singing.
It explained nothing else.
Her brown hair was piled in a sloppy knot on top of her head. And she was wearing...hell, he didn’t know what it was. A snug, pink shirt of some sort with a round neck and short sleeves. It also bared several inches of her midsection above the baggy plaid trousers she wore that hung low on her hips. The shirt clung to her breasts. Breasts clearly not bound in any way.
“What are ye wearing?”
She bounced to a halt, gaping at him with wide eyes, hand motionless on the end of the toothbrush protruding from her lips. She mumbled his name around it. The only sound beyond the tinny buzz that filled his ears.
“What is that noise?”
“What? Oh.”
Removing the brush, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and plucked at one ear and then the other as she turned and hurried back into the adjacent loo. The bothersome noise stopped. Water ran again before she returned to the bedchamber. Her lips wet and rosy. “What are you doing here?”
“I got yer note.” He held up the square of folded paper.
She raised a brow. “The one that said I’d talk to you in the morning?”
Aye, that one. He hadn’t wanted to wait for answers. He’d wanted them immediately.
Tris hadn’t anticipated anything like this.
Or that his wanting would metamorphose into a craving of a completely different nature once he confronted her. She crossed her arms, the gesture pushing her breasts up until they strained against the flimsy shirt. His eyes dipped down again of their own accord. Her nipples were outlined through the thin material and grew harder beneath his gaze. She inhaled deeply, her bosom pressed and stretched the fabric. Her audible, unsteady exhale sent a visible quiver through her breasts.
His own breath would not come. Nor could he manage a word in his defense. Blood pounded hard in his head and ears until a different sort of buzzing pervaded his mind. It beat against his chest with a distinctive fury. Curled his fingers into fists until her short note was crumpled within.
He shouldn’t have come here.
She should’ve been abed, he argued.
Aye and would that have been any better?
Brontë was temptation no matter what she did. Seeing her thus only served to stir him that much sooner. He closed his eyes, praying for strength.
“Tris?”
Her husky voice tickled a path straight to his groin. Soft, yet closer than before. His muscles tensed of their own accord responding unconsciously to her nearness. The air between them charged with electricity, pulsed with the shape of her against him. If he opened his eyes, she’d be no more than a foot away at best.
How could he fight that?
He flinched when her hand met his chest and slid upward much as it had that afternoon. Now the peaks of her nipples grazed him as well. He regretted shedding his coat and waistcoat before he’d come. The warmth of her palm seared through his shirt. Through his armor.
What had he come here for? Gracious Lord, he couldn’t recall.
She whispered his name again. A plea on her lips and he opened his eyes. Her amethyst depths lit like the reflection of fire off a gemstone. With desire. Need.
Both of her hands ran over his chest and shoulders, around the nape of his neck. He stiffened when she pressed her soft curves flush against him, notched his chin up when she tried to kiss him. Too late. Her lips grazed his, her tongue teased his lower lip.
Just a kiss, he reasoned. One innocent kiss. They happened all the time.
He kissed her back and she fell against him with a sigh of pleasure that ravaged his tenuous control. Her lips parted. The gates of heaven opening in an invitation to paradise.
Tris jerked back, grasped her hands in his and eased her away. Bugger it, he was only a man and a man could only take so much.
“I should leave.”
“Why?” There was disappointment in that word. Hurt. “I’m putting myself out there, Tris. I practically threw myself at your feet today. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Aye, right. Ladies flirt as a matter of course. They tempt and bewitch...” He swallowed as his throat tightened around the word. His entire body was as taut as a marble statue, hard as stone. For her. She’d bewitched him until he was spellbound. Tempted until the gentleman inside him fought for control against a rampant animal. “A gentleman does not take advantage of an unmarried miss regardless of such enticement.”
“Even if she wants him to?”
The lass surely had no idea of her allure. Or what she was asking.
“Let me be clear,” she said as if reading his doubts. “I want you, Tris. I want you in my bed. In me.”
A shudder of pure lust wracked his body with those whisper
ed words. At the image they summoned. In her bed. Inside of her. He’d never wanted anything more than he wanted to accommodate her desires.
His fists clenched around the delicate hands still in his grip. “Lass, I cannae. I swore to Henry...”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what all this is about? What did he say?”
“He made me promise no’ to take advantage of ye.”
Tricked him into it, more like. He’d known it the moment the vow passed his lips.
“He also agreed that life is short and that we should seize each day,” she argued.
“They are rather conflicting messages,” he agreed then shook his head. “Och, lass, I swore to him that I wouldnae lure ye to my bed. I cannae go back on my word as a friend and gentleman.”
“And you wouldn’t be.” Her sweet breath brushed his lips as she kissed him lightly again. “That is my bed, isn’t it? And I’m the one doing the luring, right? Make love to me, Tris. Please.”
Sweet Jesus, he loved a woman with a rational argument.
JUST LIKE THAT THE gentleman was gone.
His mouth moved over hers, hot and demanding. Light fragile kisses conquered by ones filled with frenzy and fury. When she parted her lips under his, his tongue traced hers, then plunged to thoroughly ravish her. His clenched fists now widespread fingers threading through her hair The restrained power of his taut body bowed over her, and he held her tight as if the tiniest space between them incensed him. A hungry groan rumbled deep in his chest, reverberating against her breasts, though Brontë already trembled from head to toe from the force of his passion.
Need infused her, beyond simple wanting. Beyond desire. As if she’d crawled across a barren dessert for years parched and dehydrated. Tris was her oasis. Her long, tall drink of water. She needed this, needed him.
This was why she hadn’t left after seeing Henry safe this afternoon. This was what held her back, kept her here. There would be no leaving this time without knowing the touch of his body against hers.
He gave her everything she thirsted for. His big hard body enveloped her, crushed her to meld against every muscular plane. A ragged moan caught in her throat as his hands met the bare flesh of her back. Under her shirt, kneading. Caressing. Embracing.
One arm caught her around the waist and the other hand glided downward. Under the loose band of her pajamas and over her bottom. With a groan, he clasped her and lifted her against him. Against the rigid length of his arousal, thick and throbbing. He rocked against her wrenching a hungry sigh from her.
Brontë wound her legs around his hips and his carnal thrusts nudged against her pulsing core. Her breaths came in short pants against his mouth. Curling flames of lust licked at her limbs.
Tris swore under his breath and turned, pinning her against the door. He kissed her again and again, deep and long. Tasting and savoring as if he could do nothing more than that all night.
She didn’t have the patience for that. Not yet. Desperation pulsed through her. Hunger she couldn’t deny. She dropped her legs and pushed Tris away. Chest heaving, hair mussed he stared at her. A feast she intended to partake of. “Get in bed.”
His lips quirked at the harsh command. “I thought ye were intent on luring me to yer bed, lass. No’ demanding it.”
He wanted luring? Fine.
She strolled past him and crawled unto the bed. Standing on her knees at the edge of the mattress, she freed her hair from the messy bun she’d pinned up and let it hang loose, then tugged the string of her bottoms. They loosened and slipped down, baring her hipbones. His gaze slid with them but hastened back up when she lifted her tee shirt a fraction.
“Nay, lass,” he said hoarsely. “Let me.”
Satisfied, she dropped her hands. He yanked at his tie, eyes on hers hooded and dark. Unbuttoning his collar and the front placard of his shirt, he shrugged it over his head before she had a chance to argue the right to do it herself. The muscles of his arms and chest bunched and jumped as he wadded it into a ball and flung it aside. Her eyes followed the golden light of the lamp as it played over his broad chest sprinkled with dark hair and down every rise and dip of his washboard abs. God, he had a magnificently sculpted body!
Brontë released a shaky breath of appreciation as he walked toward her. Reached out to touch him. He shook his head and knocked her hand aside, his own diving under her shirt and up to encase her breasts. A growl of pleasure sounded deep in his throat, washed away by her soft cry. More, her body demanded. Tugging the shirt over her head before he could argue, she wrapped her arms around him, savoring the glide of his hot bare flesh across hers. The tickle of his chest hair against her breasts. Their lips met again, now fervent and hurried. She drew on his bottom lip, biting down. Tris swore, then crushed his mouth against hers.
Her fingers sought the buttons of his trousers, opened them and slipped inside. He growled again, the throaty sound as exhilarating as the feel of him. Lifting her off the bed, he nudged her bottoms farther down until they fell to her ankles and then to the floor. She wrapped her legs around him again, holding tight as he tipped her onto the bed and came over her until his erection ground against her.
He stilled with a rueful groan. “Bugger it, lass. I wisnae anticipating... I’ve nae protection.”
A bubble of laughter welled in her chest. “Good thing one of us was thinking ahead.”
Or more accurately, Aila. She’d slipped a whole box of condoms in the duffle while Brontë wasn’t looking. She’d kiss her friend when she got back. For now, she rolled out from under him and walked a drunken path to the bureau, finding the box and pulling one out.
If she had her way, they’d use them all.
Tris had rolled on to his side, propped on one elbow watching her. Cast in shadows, trousers opened enough to tease at what awaited her, that surge of urgency enflamed her once more. She pointed toward his lower half. “Off. Now.”
With a grin, he complied while she tore open the package and left the wrapper behind. Climbing back onto the bed, she pushed him down and ran her hands up his broad chest and back down to his thick, naked thighs. What lay between left her trembling and dizzy. He started and tensed as she smoothed the condom over him. “What are ye —”
“Shush,” she commanded and crawled over him. Kissing and nipping along a path from his navel to his chest. Up his neck and jaw. “I want you, Tris. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
He dove his fingers into her hair, pulling her up to meet his fiery kiss once more. When she straddled him, he shook his head and flipped her over until she lay beneath him. Quelling any protest she might’ve had with another dizzying kiss.
“Dinnae fash, lass. ’Tis naught to do wi’ a woman’s place in the bedroom or whatever nonsense is brewing in yer bonny head,” he whispered, stroking a hand from her breast down and over her hip. “There are a score of places in this room and a multitude of ways I mean to hae ye. Presently, I mean to take the woman who lured me so boldly into her bed. I want ye beneath me, lass. Then ye can be above me.”
He’d get no argument from her. Brontë savored the weight of his body on hers, cradling him between her thighs and content even in the prospect of repeating this position again and again. She ran her fingers along his jaw, relishing the rasp of stubble beneath her fingertips. “You talk too much.”
With a grin, he let her drag his head down. He kissed her lightly then, nuzzling her neck while his hand skimmed over her bottom and between her thighs. He’d no more than grazed her and she jumped with a low moan of frustration. She was already on fire, her body thrumming from head to toe and he wanted to play?
“No,” she begged. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”
“I’ve longed to touch ye, lass.”
“Save it for later. Please.”
His eyes flared leaving her mesmerized by the fire burning there. Lifting himself farther over her, he entered her with a gentle nudge. Frustrated and shaky, she caught his hips and urged him on. With a shake of h
is head, he smoothed her hair back from her cheek and pushed farther inside of her. A sensual glide of body against body. Stretching and filling. His arms shook as he drew in a deep breath.
She quivered with the force of it, too. As if this escalating fervor were all too much to bear. Her heart sprinted, beating against her ribs weak and hurried. Her lips and cheeks tingled. Her mind fogged, intoxicated by him.
“Breathe, lass. I’ll no’ hae ye swooning.”
“I would never.”
But she nearly had. So utterly overwhelmed by him that she’d forgotten to take a breath rather than miss a moment of his possession. As he claimed her, she realized that’s what this was. Possession. Taking. Owning.
Something she’d never imagined would feel so right.
Tris braced himself on his elbows, looking down at her with the same sense of ownership. She didn’t mind at all.
“Ye’re mine now, lass,” he whispered hoarsely.
She didn’t mind that either.
He withdrew a fraction of an inch, the delicious friction had her throbbing around him already. Forward, he teased and back again. Deeper and retreat. Her fingers curled into his back as he toyed with her, unaware of how desperate her body was for release. Unaware of the delirium already threatening to overtake her. Her breaths came in short, shallow pants until once again darkness loomed. God, she couldn’t take it. This passion...this rapture was too much.
This wasn’t her. She was impulsive, yes, but she’d never been this needy. So desperate she couldn’t walk away from any guy. Right now, she probably couldn’t walk at all. What was he doing to her?
A low keening escaped her before she could stifle the mortifying sound. Brontë threw back her head, closing her eyes against the onslaught of sensation. Tris cradled her cheek in his hand and kissed her tenderly.
“Look at me, Brontë love. I want to see ye.” She shook her head and felt his smile. “Aye. Come now.”
A Scot to Remember Page 19
