The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [58]
What to do, Alex asked herself again and again, indeed, the question plagued her until she fell asleep beside her husband in the gamekeeper’s bed.
Douglas awoke feeling very hot and very aroused. His member was hard, uncomfortably so, and for an instant, he was disoriented. Never had he felt such intense desire, a desire so urgent, a desire that was pushing him, prodding at him, making him forget who he was, where he was. He realized that Alexandra’s cheek was pressed against his bare shoulder, her bare right leg was resting on his bare belly. The linen shirt she wore was up around her waist and he felt every exquisite female inch of her. He wanted to touch her breasts, to feel their texture, their softness. He saw her standing there beside his chair, naked, her arms at her sides, her hands fisted for she was set on her course, and he, well, he had humiliated her thoroughly.
It hadn’t been well done of him. But what was he to have done? To have taken what she offered would have admitted that he’d given in and accepted her, that she’d won, that her damned father had won, and all because she’d stripped down to her lovely white skin and let him look at her? She’d offered herself to him. He cursed now but it didn’t help. His sex hurt, actually hurt with want. Well, why not? She was very nearly naked now, pressed up against him. Why shouldn’t he feel lust? He was a normal man, wasn’t he? He gave it up. None of it seemed to matter now. It was dark, they were alone, the rain was lashing heavily against the single windowpane and thudding loudly upon the roof. Everything that was real, everything that was solid, everything that mattered, everything that shrieked for decisions and consequences, was blessedly far away. It could all be ignored for a good long while.
He turned slightly toward her and his hand caressed her breast. She moaned. The low soft sound froze him, then made his heart pound frantically. He wanted to come inside her right this instant. Damn her, he hurt. He cursed again even as his hand cupped her, but only for a moment. He quickly unlaced the front of her shirt. He pulled it off her, shoving the shirt to her waist. Why didn’t she wake up? He could barely see her, but he knew her breasts were magnificent. He wanted to touch her now, kiss her now, taste her. He didn’t think, didn’t consider a single consequence of his actions, merely lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. She tasted hot, so incredibly hot, and so sweet he couldn’t bear it. He was in a sorry state, and he knew it.
He raised his head a moment, and again she moaned and then moaned again, her head falling to the side. He kissed her throat, as his fingers caressed her breast. He wanted her mouth. He wanted her to groan into his mouth, to fill him with the passion he was rousing in her. When his mouth closed over hers, he was aware again of the immense heat of her. So very hot she was, hot with passion, hot for him. Again she moaned.
He was nearly frantic now, his body surging, his sex swelled against her thigh. Why the hell didn’t she wake up? “Let me get this ridiculous shirt off you.” She moaned again and he paused, frowning down at her. Surely she should only moan if what he was doing to her made her feel passion.
“Alexandra,” he said softly, and lightly tapped his palm against her cheek. Heat.
For a moment he simply didn’t want to believe it. She moaned again, twisting away from him. Dear God, she wasn’t moaning because she wanted him; she wasn’t moaning to seduce him; she was moaning because she was burning with fever.
He felt like an animal; he felt guilty as hell, then he wanted to laugh at himself for his conceit. He shook his head, the seriousness of it washing over him. She was ill. She was very ill. He got hold of himself. His lust died a quick death. He saw then the many men bathed in fevers after battles. So many had died. Too many. But at least he knew what to do.