Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
“Perhaps you are?” Reclining against the neck rest, she raised the sponge to her own arm and lathered it from shoulder to wrist. “You don’t know?”
“I suppose …” His voice trailed off as she tilted her head and soaped her neck. He stared, entranced, as a rivulet of foam trickled down between her breasts. Beneath the surface of the water, his erection throbbed. “I suppose I never had the occasion to find out.”
Her hand froze, trapping the sponge against her chest. “You never had the occasion to find out? I find that hard to believe.”
He shrugged. “I’ve never bathed with a woman before.”
“Yes, but surely you needn’t bathe with a woman to—” She sat up abruptly, causing a little splash of her own. “You said it’s been a long time for you.”
“Yes.” He drew out the word.
“Years, you said.”
He nodded.
“How many?”
Rhys had to think about it. “Eleven? That sounds about right.”
She stared at him. “Eleven years. You haven’t made love to a woman in eleven years.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever ‘made love’ to a woman, precisely. But I tupped a fair number when I was a youth. Whores, mostly.”
“Mostly,” she echoed, beginning to soap her other arm. She seemed too distracted now to make a true performance of it, but that didn’t keep Rhys from enjoying the show.
“Aye, mostly.” He hoped his honesty didn’t offend her, but he didn’t see any way around it. This was his wife-to-be. If she asked him a question, he would tell her the truth.
About most things.
He cleared his throat and continued, “My first was a local girl, at Eton. She was curious, and I was … sixteen. But the experience was so damned horrid for us both, I kept to whores after that. No more virgins.”
“But how did ‘no more virgins’ become ‘no more women’?”
Dipping his head, he scooped water in his cupped hands and sloshed it over his face and neck. When he surfaced, he shook himself and said, “I joined the army.”
“Somehow I’d formed the impression that even soldiers can find time for women. You know, at least an hour or two here and there, over the course of a decade.”
“Most do.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” He suddenly realized that he might be making himself sound rather pitiful. Or worse, less than virile. He hastened to add, “It’s not that I stopped wanting women. Don’t misunderstand. But I spent most of those years fighting or recovering from injuries, so my options were limited by circumstance. And more than that … I guess I just decided I’d rather not lie with women who didn’t truly want me.”
She stared at him. “What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want you?”
He shook his head, uncertain how to explain it to her. To be sure, he’d had offers. Made by all the wrong women, for all the wrong reasons. Soldiers’ widows looking for a warm tent and strong protector. Married ladies of the ton who wanted to be tupped by a big, strapping, scary-looking brute, but who were just snobbish enough to eschew the footmen. Whores who couldn’t afford to be choosy.
He thought of Leo Chatwick, who could pick up a harlot in Covent Garden and have her half in love with him before the hour was out. Perhaps if Rhys possessed that sort of talent, he could have stomached paying for sexual pleasure. But the harlots seldom came to him willingly, and even when they did, they didn’t care to linger.
“Once I’d gone that long without bedding any women, it seemed worth waiting to bed the right woman.” Just in case it needed saying, he added, “That’s you.”
“Really?” Her face softened, set aglow with candlelight. “Rhys, that’s terribly sweet.”
Sweet? Well, he supposed he’d take sweet. It was better than pitiful.
She lifted one of her legs from the water and propped it atop his bent knee. Despite the cool temperature of the bath, he could have sworn drops of water sizzled between them.
When she leaned forward to soap her ankle, he took the sponge from her hand. “Let me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Taking time to enjoy it, he dragged lather over every inch of her soft, supple calf and thigh. When he’d finished the first leg, she lowered it back beneath the water and lifted the other for his attention. As he stroked her, she hummed low in her throat.
Emboldened, he slid the sponge up her inner thigh. She caught his wrist and pulled his hand higher. Over the smooth slope of her belly, all the way up to her breasts.
“Wash them, too,” she urged.
He obeyed, stricken mute with lust as he swirled white foam over each milky breast and pale pink tip. He teased her nipples to peaks with the rough sponge, then ran soap along the vulnerable, hidden curve beneath each breast.
Then, casting the sponge aside, he cupped her breasts in his bare hands. His fingers slicked over her soapy skin, and he clamped his thumbs tight over her puckered nipples to anchor them. She moaned her approval as he stroked and kneaded, but when he slid his fingers down toward her sex, she stayed his hand.