The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War), Eva Devon [e textbook reader .TXT] 📗

He would never be normal again, and he loathed the idea of people trying to convince him of it.

And they had tried.

Several well-meaning friends had visited him, told him how well he was mending, and how he should be up and about riding to hounds in no time.

Several doctors had also spouted such drivel as they handed him bottles of potions and opiates mixed with alcohol.

He’d poured those out into the grass.

But the doctors that he trusted had warned he would likely experience pain for the rest of his life, and to be careful not to become reliant upon laudanum.

Still, the never-ending pain was something that he did not know how he was going to deal with for the rest of his life. And yet he found that in her presence? He did not feel the extent of the agony that he so often did.

Even walking did not feel quite so painful.

Perhaps it was the motivation of having her in his bed at the end of his long walk upstairs. Perhaps it was the idea of holding her in his arms. But then he worried. . .

What if he could not hold her properly in his arms?

What if he could not even make love to her?

His body seemed to contradict that notion. He was positively humming with desire for her.

Chapter 10

The journey upstairs had been a precarious but successful one.

Now, in his room, lit only by the light of the moon dancing in through the towering windows, he studied her from his chair.

Though it was galling. He’d needed to sit. For a moment. To ease his leg and gather himself for what was to come. Dear god, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her beauty.

She was the height of all his fantasies. Every single one that had occupied his sleeping and waking hours since her letters had first arrived. Now that he had her in his room? He felt as green as a boy.

Absurd. But true.

She stepped towards him confidently, and he followed the hem of her gown as she lifted it ever so slightly so she wouldn’t catch it on her shoe.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from her shapely ankle.

Bloody hell. He could scarce draw breath. At the sight of her ankle. His body hardened as if he’d born no wounds at all months ago. If her ankle did this to him? He could only imagine what the rest might do.

Oh how he wanted to circle that delicate silk-clad flesh with his hand and prop her foot on his unharmed thigh. From there, he’d make his way up her leg till he met her soft flesh and then— He blinked.

If he wasn’t careful, he’d spend in but a moment and he wanted this to last. “You’re certain that this is what you wish?”

“I am.” Her voice dipped, touched with a surprising huskiness. “I want you and this moment more than I have ever wanted anything in my whole life.”

“Truly?” he breathed. He longed to slide his hands up her skirts and he was certain that, once committed. . . No, he’d already committed. It was why she was in his rooms. So, he gestured for her to come nearer, hating that pain kept him in his chair.

She took another step closer till her skirts brushed his muscled thigh. She lightly bit her lower lip. “Have you imagined this?”

A pained laugh rumbled past his lips. Oh, what was he doing? He was holding onto honor with a faltering grasp, that’s what the bloody hell he was doing. In a moment, his honor would be but a scrap. But it would be worth it to have her.

To have this memory.

“Every night, I’ve imagined you. Even without knowing your face. It is you that has filled by dreams and bed.”

Her delicate hand lightly brushed his arm. “I am glad to hear it. For I am the same. Whenever I have closed my eyes in the dark of night and pursued that secret pleasure, it is you I have longed for.”

Secret pleasure. Did she mean?

And as he gazed upon her, he realized yes. She had somehow discovered pleasure as so many did on their own, and she had thought of him.

Lust slammed through his body at the not so innocent but tempting words. Her hand was so light and yet firm upon his body, he could only imagine those slender fingers wrapped around his cock.

“And what did you imagine?” he asked, his voice rough.

She licked her lips. “That I was able to touch you. That you touched me.”

She stroked his linen-clad arm, bending ever so slightly so her breasts pressed against her corset in two delicious rounds. “I’d like to see you without your shirt again.”

It was tempting to look up and see if her angelic face was flushed with need, but he needed to draw his focus, lest he not lose his wits. He focused on her simple gown and not on her hand tracing over his arm.

“You wish me to remove my shirt?” he clarified, amazed and pleased to see her in this new role of female power. He’d loved her strength in her letters.

To behold it? It was a wonder.

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

It was the please that undid him. Wincing, he reached into his breeches, pulled free his linen shirt, and whipped it over his head. He let it drop from his fingertips and met her gaze.

Somehow, he resisted the urge to shift on his chair, but blood was rushing straight to his groin and, by the second, he was growing harder.

She gasped with pleasure, then trailed her hand down from his shoulder to rest upon his bicep. Her fingers curled at his muscles. “I cannot tell you how often I have longed for this.”

Anthony flexed his muscles, developed from hours and hours of training, hours and hours of attempted recovery. Despite the fact he was sitting due to injury, he wanted her to know he was strong.

Damnation.

She wanted this as badly