Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,67

believe I’ll use the bathing chamber. Mad, passionate love sounds quite agreeable.”

Eleven

Sophie leaned over and kissed Vim, a lingering, claiming kiss that had lust bursting into flame in his vitals. He’d purposely not kissed her, because to do so would have been presumptuous and stupid and dangerous and…

Wonderful. He groaned with pleasure at the taste of her, his hand finding her hair and holding her steady for the plundering his mouth demanded. “God in heaven, Sophie…”

“Uhn.”

A small, female sound, one of satisfaction and pleasure that left Vim envisioning mad, passionate, semiclothed lovemaking on the hearth before the fire, Sophie making just such sounds beneath him, his cock buried—

She patted his cheek and broke the kiss. “I won’t be long.”

She wafted out of the room, and Vim was still sitting dazedly on his heels before the fire when he heard the door to the bathing chamber click shut across the hallway.

He again used cold water to wash off, and found his borrowed dressing gown was still draped across the foot of the bed. Kit was fast asleep by the time Vim had used the warmer on the sheets, banked the fire, then applied his naked self to the sheets to keep them from cooling before Sophie could join him.

Mad, passionate love? Had he ever in his life made mad, passionate love? He enjoyed sex, he enjoyed the friendships that could arise around a shared pleasure in sex, but mad, passionate love?

Sophie appeared in the doorway, wearing only a nightgown and wrapper, her hair curling down her back, her smile a trifle uncertain. The sight of her fresh from her ablutions had blood pooling in Vim’s groin and more images dancing in his brain.

Mad, passionate love it would be. Vim propped himself on one elbow and patted the covers. “Come to bed. Kit will have us up and about before the night’s half gone, and I have plans for you, my lady, that do not involve sleep.”

She wandered over to the hearth. “He does seem to be sound asleep. Crawling is hard work.”

He watched while she drifted to her vanity and sat before the mirror. “I recall when my youngest sister started to crawl. Papa insisted we have a party in the nursery, because his last little princess was up off the floor. I danced with him by standing on his shiny, tall boots.”

“I can do that for you, you know.”

“Let me dance on your boots?” She picked up a brush and tilted her head to the side so the mass of her hair fell over one shoulder.

“Brush your hair.” He tossed the covers back, started across the room, and then caught sight of Sophie’s fascinated expression in the vanity mirror. He snatched the dressing gown from the bed and belted it snugly around his waist.

When he stood directly behind her, she passed the brush back to him, letting their fingers barely touch.

Ah, so she was teasing him. The subtle teasing of a woman who understood the value of anticipation, but teasing all the same. Vim smiled at her in the mirror. “You have gorgeous hair, Sophie Windham.” He drew the damp, curling length of it back over her shoulders in both of his hands and repeated the caress when she closed her eyes.

“Shall I braid it?”

“Please.” She opened her eyes. “Over the right shoulder, because I like to sleep on my left side.”

“What else do you like?”

She blew out a breath, her expression considering while Vim used the brush in long strokes from her crown to her hips. It was beautiful hair, thick, lustrous, and gleaming with an indication of basic health and sound living.

“I like music,” she said, “and sweets. I am quite partial to sweets.”

Vim took this answer for a deliberate and charming prevarication. “I meant, what do you like from your lovers? Shall I kiss you all over? Shall you bind my wrists and have your way with me?” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, the braid he’d been fashioning forgotten. “Shall you put your mouth on me, Sophie, and make me forget myself utterly?”

She sat very still while Vim slid a hand over her shoulder and let it rest there, just above her breast while he pressed his cheek to hers.

“My love, are you blushing?”

“You are very bold, Mr. Charpentier.”

He straightened, feeling it imperative that he braid up her hair, so he might have the pleasure of unbraiding it once they’d gained the bed.

“I like your hands on me,” he volunteered. “There’s a particular quality to