“Playing dead, are we? That won’t last long.”
He wasn’t even winded carrying her, and she was no sylph. How she hated him. He didn’t trust her, yet lusted for her. It made no sense to Charlotte at all. But soon she was too busy to analyze the mystery of his male mind, when there were other male parts to attend to.
He could feel her eyes as he plodded back and forth with the water pails. If they needed a bath before, it was now absolutely essential. The cloud of Charlotte’s scent and sex was imprinted on him. He hadn’t smelled this feminine since his army days in Spain when he’d been a guest at a very pleasant brothel. Those days were thankfully behind him. He’d survived without a scratch.
Except for the rakish scar on his cheek. He had received that wound not on the battlefield, but while home on leave. He’d been told it only enhanced his beauty, but beauty was as beauty did. He felt far from beautiful. There was something about Charlie Fallon that brought out the beast in him.
She very probably was innocent, at least initially. But she had made up for lost time when she tried to steal his paintings and cosh him on the head. He didn’t trust her an inch. The only way to subdue her was to fuck her senseless, which he had done, and quite masterfully if he said so himself. He needed to find her sister and get Charlotte out of his house and back to Little Hiccup before he was saddled with her permanently.
He was afraid his little thief was addictive despite all her starchy primness, maybe because of it. Charlie Fallon almost seemed the sort of woman one might marry, if one were so inclined. But she hadn’t been a virgin, so how prim could she be? If she had a sad story, he didn’t want to hear it. The sooner he got rid of her, the happier he would be.
After his bath, he’d go home and see if there was news from Mr. Mulgrew. Right now, he was going to wash every glistening square inch of Charlie’s skin. He arranged the bath table with soap, sponges, and pitchers. Rubbing his jaw, he decided he’d shave later at home. There was no point in letting Charlie near a razor.
She hadn’t moved from the bed, but was not asleep. Her cornflower-blue eyes were focused on the ceiling, the tempera home to all the angels Angelique had insisted upon. It was not his best work, and his neck had gotten an awful crick painting it. How Michelangelo had endured the Sistine Chapel truly was a miracle. Bay would have been much happier with a mirror over the bed.
“Everything is ready.”
Charlotte twisted the sheet around her. “You go ahead. I’ll bathe after you finish.”
“Indeed you will not.” He strode over and lifted her from the bed.
“Oh, do stop carrying me around like a sack of coal! Am I to be completely at your mercy, even my ablutions?”
He dropped her into the tub with a splash. “Exactly so. You are at my mercy, and I will have my wicked way with you.” She scooted to one end as he unbuttoned the placket of his breeches. Just holding her in his arms for a few steps had made him hard again.
She rolled her eyes. “Please. Not again.”
“No? I’ll give you the opportunity to change your mind.” Her breasts bobbed in the deep tub, two snowy orbs tipped with pale pink. He climbed in and stretched his toes to tickle her sweet rounded tummy. “Come here.”
“I’m fine where I am.” She covered her breasts with her arms. Bay felt a pang.
“Very well.” He picked up one bar of lime-scented soap, lathering his hands. He scrubbed his head, neck and face, knowing all the while she hoped he was getting soap in his eyes. He reached for a pitcher and rinsed, then stood, his feet planted firmly on the copper tub’s bottom. He soaped his chest, his belly, his thighs. Charlie pointedly looked at the little marble fireplace. There was no flickering fire to watch, as it was a warm spring afternoon. He knew how he could get her attention.
Sitting on the broad edge of the tub, he stroked himself, his hands slippery with suds. His cock jerked to life, although the not-so-little fellow should be napping until next Tuesday after his recent workout. Bay closed his eyes, picturing Charlie on her knees before him, water beading down her breasts. He found his rhythm, honed by years of solitude and celibacy. He lifted one eyelid and saw her staring, her lips parted.
“Touch me, Charlie,” he ordered, his voice rough.
She picked up the sponge, then dipped it into the water. Moving toward him, she dabbed lightly at his cock to remove the soap.
“Harder.”
Her blue eyes widened. He was putting himself in her hands, literally.
She rubbed the sponge against his belly, then brushed along the underside of his penis with meticulous care. Circled the tip. Stroked his ever-expanding length. It was not enough. He needed more. He pulled the sponge from her fingers and tossed it aside impatiently. Her eyes darkened. They both knew what he wanted.
Soon she was in the position he’d imagined, her tongue hesitant as she trailed it along his flesh. He was not adorned with raspberry fool now, and he sensed she had little experience how to please a man this way. For a novice, her mouth was pure, fiery sin. The blush on her cheek showed a touch of reluctance, but the rest of her seemed disarmingly engaged. One small hand cupped his stones while the other held his cock firm. He murmured encouraging words to her until she enveloped him in her hot mouth and he couldn’t speak any longer.
What wasn’t surrounded by moisture was eased with warm strokes. She found her stride, teasing him, tormenting him, drawing him in so far until he struggled for balance. She was the embodiment of every man’s dream. Or his, at any rate, and that was all that mattered. Her lips curled slyly around his cock, her breasts rose and fell with each gasping breath, her tongue was beautifully busy.
As if she knew he was close, she raised her eyes, the blue quite overtaken by black desire. She would deny him nothing. Wordless and grateful, his fingers threaded through the wildness of her hair as he selfishly held her in place. She startled only a little when he came, didn’t disappoint him by trying to pull away. Through heavy lids, he watched the column of her throat as he spent. He’d never in his life seen or felt anything so sensual.
Ah. Yes, she was addictive. He was totally enslaved. He lifted her wet body up against his and kissed her, claimed her. Her dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks as he foamed lime froth along her curves, over her nether curls, into the cleft of her arse. Unsteady from the urge to taste her everywhere, he slipped back into the water, seating her back-to on his lap to wash her fall of ebony hair. She fitted perfectly, felt perfect against him, her softness yielding to the hard muscle of his body. She tipped her head back like a trusting child as he poured water over her. When she gave a little sigh of contentment, his cock twitched in response.
They sat together in their own liquid fiefdom, his thumb grazing her nipple as his other hand found her tickler plump and erect. He pressed and pinched, stroked and strummed until she broke apart. It seemed impossible so soon, but he was marble-hard. He lifted her hips and drove in, the cooling water sloshing onto the carpet. Without a word, he slowly raised and set her down on his shaft. She was pliant, yielding, all irritation forgotten. Her muscles contracted in a dizzying series of shocks, compelling him to spill into her with hardly any effort. She settled back against him, her body lax. The only flaws in the process had been that he was unable to kiss her mouth as he emptied himself, and that the water was now damned cold. She was shivering.
“We’re turning into prunes.” He kissed her temple, brushing away damp hair. It was springing up into a sable puff. Most reluctantly, he disengaged and turned her face to him. Blissful, her blue eyes sleepy, she placed her lips on his throat.
If only they could stay so at peace with each other. Bay knew it was unlikely. “I’ve got to leave you for a few hours. Take a nap, my dove, for when I come back I want you wide awake.”
“You are a fiend.” This time it didn’t sound like an insult so much as a compliment.
He helped her out of the tub and wrapped a bath sheet around her. If he stopped to dry her off, he’d wind right back in her bed and inside her. For two middle-aged people, they were behaving like randy youths.
Bay dressed quickly in some spare clothes and headed home.
Chapter 8
Bay’s town house was a modest affair. As a single man he had no need for a vast quantity of bedrooms or servants. He’d lived in bachelor apartments when he sold out, spending most of his nights in the
