faces.
He tilted his head and cocked his eyebrow, studying her shiny dark hair, her tiny hands with smooth skin and tidy, short nails. A fresh, clean scent seemed to encompass her.
She was also far too clean to be a whore.
So who was she?
He hesitated for a moment, then lifted the covers. His breath caught in his throat.
The woman was naked except for three pale pink triangles, two of which barely covered her small, but nicely rounded breasts and the third covered between her legs. He could see the hint of dark curls through the translucent material.
Perhaps she was indeed a whore. And from the look and smell of her, he must have paid a very pretty penny for her.
Damn, Christian! His brother was supposed to make sure he did not do such decadent things.
Wait. The reason he must be so hazy on the previous night had to be because he had been out celebrating his upcoming nuptials. Or rather trying to forget them.
Betrothed to a savage American. He looked back at the lovely creature beside him. He certainly deserved a fine memory such as this to warm him at night when he was lying unsatisfied beside his beefy, American wife.
And this little tart was truly beautiful.
He reached out and touched her breast, teasing the shadow of her nipple through the thin material of her naughty little costume. Her nipple hardened instantly, poking greedily at his fingers.
He smiled. She was delightful.
He ducked his head and lapped the hard pebble, then suckled. He moved to the other nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth.
She twisted her head against the pillow, a whispery breath escaping her lips.
He sat back and admired his handiwork, loving the look of her pointy nipples and rosy areolas now visible through the moist material. This costume was quite a boon.
He looked back up at her face. She now faced him, and he was struck by the sweetness of her. Her full lips and rounded cheeks made her look almost angelic. How unfair that he couldn’t just keep her. But he supposed he could, mistresses were common enough. He had just never considered he would have to take one. He had always assumed he would have a happy marriage like his parents. Of course, he could blame those same parents for his current predicament. An American! Damnation! But he would marry the woman out of respect for his parents. And respect to their memory.
Well, he could dwell on that or he could concentrate on—other things.
His gaze returned to his bed partner. Her face may look angelic, but her body was absolutely sinful. He reached out a hand to stroke her belly, amazed at her heat and the softness of her skin.
Again another whispered breath slipped past those kissable lips.
He grinned and ran his fingers lower. If her skin was this hot, he could only imagine what her quim would feel like. He touched her through the triangle, taking pleasure in the slide of the sheer material over her springy little curls.
This time she whimpered, and her thighs fell apart, begging him to touch her more intimately.
He crawled down between her spread thighs. The diaphanous material thinned to a narrow little strip that barely covered her sweet mound. A musky scent seemed to radiate from her, warm and delicious.
He gritted his teeth. God, could he remember ever feeling this aroused? This hungry for a woman?
He looked back up at her face, and something mingled with his desire, intensifying it, making him mad for her. He wanted to enter her, to thrust himself into her so deep that he could feel every inch of himself surrounded by her luscious heat.
Part of him was excited at the idea of taking this woman while she slept. But another part of him wanted to stare into her eyes as he filled her. He wanted to see her desire, her need in her wide green eyes.
He paused. Why did he think her eyes would be green when he could not even recall who she was? Strange. But the unanswered question did not distract him long.
She moved her leg and whimpered softly.
He smiled, focusing on the delights before him.
He traced the strip of the triangle where it narrowed between her thighs. Silky material and fine curls tickled his hand. Moisture scorched his fingertip, and he nudged the thin material away from her, admiring her pink, moist flesh. Gently he parted her and pressed his finger to the tiny nub waiting for him.
She gasped, her lips parting. Her eyes remained shut, but her legs fell wider apart, giving him full access to her heat. He accepted it, stroking her, circling her. Only leaving her to sink his finger into her startling tightness, but then he went right back to that tiny nub.
She moaned, wiggling her hips against his hand.
He gave her what her body begged for, touching her relentlessly, building the pace and the pressure until she cried out.
“Rhys! Oh, Rhys!”
Oh, yes, he was going to keep her.
Rhys was over her, touching her with his hands and his mouth. She exalted in the feel of him, so happy that he was there, bringing her back from the black, empty place where she’d been trapped, unable to struggle to the surface.
But this new place. Mmm, she liked this place, all sensation and arousal. All Rhys.
His lips on her breasts, tugging at her nipples, nipping her. Pleasure shot through her.
His hands were large and strong on her skin. He stroked her belly, her hips. She was drowning in need.
Then his finger found the spot where she most wanted to be touched. Touched by him. He rubbed and swirled. Until she exploded.
Jane gasped and panted, and finally once the ecstasy slowly subsided into long, slow waves of satisfaction, she opened her eyes.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. She’d never, never had a dream like that.
“I agree,” a rich, husky voice said.
Jane shot up and made a startled noise. Rhys knelt, fully naked, between her spread thighs.
“Good morning.” He greeted her with a lopsided smile.
Jane backed away from him, mortified, until the headboard stopped her retreat. Then she scrambled off the bed and dashed through an open door that she prayed was the bathroom. Slamming the door, she leaned heavily against it.
What had she done? She tried to recall how she could have gotten here—with Rhys—but nothing was clear. The last clear memory she had was Rhys saving her in the alley. He walked her back to the hotel. She realized she lost her parents’ wedding rings, and she went to look for them. And then…
Here. Having an orgasm. An orgasm Rhys gave her.
Even thinking about that made her knees feel weak.
What? Was she mad? Wasn’t she worried about what else had happened between them—things she couldn’t remember?
Had they had full intercourse? Again, her knees felt weak, and longing pooled deep in her belly.
Was she deranged? She shouldn’t be feeling turned on by the prospects of a night with him that she couldn’t remember. She should be freaking out.
Well, she was freaking out. But she feared it wasn’t for the right reasons.
A light rap on the door caused her to jump.
“Are you all right in there?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She closed her eyes. What did Rhys think of her? He must think she was a first-rate hussy.
Rhys sat on the edge of the bed. It would cost a few hundred pounds and likely a house in town to keep her as his