“Don’t have call to see many,” he managed roughly. “I’ve had some roos give me an affectionate glance now and again.” She chuckled, and the sound was like a kitten purring, inviting his touch. As she made free with her fondling, he put his arm back around her waist, intent and easy as a python, flexing the muscles she was admiring to bring her closer to him. As she obliged, moving in another step, he rested his free hand on her shoulder, his thumb and forefinger cradling the base of her delicate neck. She didn’t stop him, keeping on with her cleaning as if she were polishing him for her fancy walnut mantel, though he couldn’t imagine how he’d fit with all the expensive and breakable things she’d likely keep there.
Her gaze wandered over the ridged circular scars on his chest again. Then she touched him there, the slow examination almost more than he could take and remain still. When she tossed the rag on a nearby table at last, before she could ask the inevitable question, he took her damp hand firmly in his fingers. “Let’s dance.”
True to his barter, he closed the last gap between them. Her eyes widened at the firm pressure of his hips against her pelvis. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “Is that all you?”
Lord, he was twisted enough to enjoy the paradox of her, a fine lady behaving like a wanton. It was like walking into a minefield, terrifying and exhilarating at once, making his balls draw up as though to prove he was still alive. “I suppose that’s what we’re going to find out, hmm?”
Her hand drifted down his back, as welcome as only the caress of a woman’s hand could be, no metaphor needed to enhance the simple truth of that. She curled her fingers into the loose fabric of his open shirt. “Not in a mood for courtship, are you?” she teased. “Wooing me with charm?”
“That’s not what this is about. I’m not sure what your angle is, love, but I’m interested in following. That’s what I can give you.” The next song gave him a hitch to his step. It was an old spiritual that spoke of a miner at the end of his life’s journey, hoping that when he fell to his knees alone in the desolate rock desert, he’d fall into the cradle of God’s hands. She had some odd tastes, this Lady D. But he pushed away his disturbing emotional response to the song and resolutely moved them into an easy, three-step rhythm. She followed with no trouble, moving with his body in a way that suggested to him a far less religious activity, though perhaps no less spiritual than the emotions evoked by the song.
“What is it you think that I want, exactly?” She made a soft noise of pleasure when his hand pressed on her lower back. With his blood stirring, he made sure their next turn changed the position of their legs so his was interposed between hers, rubbing a passing stroke over the sensitive pubic bone guarding her clit, sending an unmistakable answer to her question. Her lips parted, giving him a glimpse of tantalizing wetness.
“I do appreciate a confident man,” she whispered, the words a teasing caress.
“I’ve been out bush over two months,” he said with sudden desperation. He couldn’t shake his innate sense of fairness, much as he wished he could. The song was too haunting. “This is no game to me, lady. I’m looking for a hard ride, the harder the better. If that’s not what you’re after, you’d best back off now and no hard feelings.”
“The proper term is ‘my lady.’ ” She never flickered an eyelash as she made the correction. “You’ve been with a woman before.” Puzzled, he inclined his head. “I think I made that obvious, love.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Halting midstep, he dropped his hands to the curve of her hips. A warning. “Don’t,” he said. “That’s not a place you’ve been invited.”
Something passed through her eyes again. A shadow . . . He couldn’t tell if it was irritation with his reaction, which was too bloody bad, or something deeper, something he would like even less. Before he could put his finger on it, she moved her free hand to his chest, laying it over the ritual scars on his upper body again. There were two, each one curving up over the pectoral in a winged arc and circling the nipple, the outer rings dotted with bumps, scars made by putting clay in the fresh wounds. Her fingers passed over them like Braille, which he knew in a way it was. “I won’t step through a door where I’m not invited, but this is related, isn’t it?
There’s magic to it. Significant . . . grief.”
“Yeah,” he said shortly, unsettled by the understanding in her tone. Thank God, the song was over. She nodded, then cupped the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. She’d willingly moved back onto safer ground. Respecting him. Showing compassion, not pity.