Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,60

miserably as she moaned in ecstasy on the last words.

“I wish I could see you,” he said. But he didn’t need to see her to know she was close to climax. Her body tightened and her cries grew louder and more frantic. He had a moment to worry someone might hear them, but the informal garden was safer than anywhere else they might go. They were far from the house and the road, and the sound of the brook below would carry over her voice.

That was until she cried out and her body convulsed. She pressed hard against him, and he could feel her throb and pulse. Had he ever felt a woman find her pleasure like that? Had he ever paid such close attention to her ragged breaths and the scent of her arousal? He couldn’t see her, but he had discovered other ways to enjoy pleasuring her.

He withdrew his hand, and she slumped against the tree. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair, soft and fragrant. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing blood. It felt so good to touch her, so good to feel her release against his hand. So good to feel his own hunger for the touch and taste and feel of her growing.

“That was not the first time a man has touched you,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation. Rather, it was a late attempt to be certain he hadn’t just given a virgin her first petite mort against a tree.

“You’re not the first,” she said, sounding unapologetic. “If that bothers you—”

He held her close when she tried to struggle away. “Not in the least. I’m no priest myself.” He leaned away, cupped her face, and kissed her again to prove the revelation had changed nothing. After a moment, she kissed him back, leaning into him again as though she could not get enough. He knew the feeling. He wanted to keep talking. If he started kissing her again, she might end up under him on a bed of pine needles.

“Is that why your parents left you behind and in the care of our vicar?” he asked.

She sighed. “I’m afraid I disappointed them greatly in Cairo.”

“Cairo?” His brows shot up. “Will you tell me?”

“Will you tell me about your first time?” Her voice held a hint of challenge.

“A quid pro quo? Very well, though it’s not anything as exotic as Cairo.”

“Shall we sit down? I find my legs are a bit wobbly.”

He nodded and they returned to the log, Pru leading him. Somehow she managed it without making him feel as though he needed the assistance. They sat together for a few moments in companionable silence. Nash listened to the burbling water of the brook below and the breeze rustling through the leaves. It had been a long time since he had just let the garden envelop him, not cocked an ear for the sound of danger. “Is the peacock still below?” he asked.

“No. We scared him off. You will have to tell me how peacocks came to be at Wentmore,” she said. “I know there is a story.”

“Are you trying to wriggle out of telling me about Cairo?”

“No. Let’s see, where to begin. Have you been to Cairo?”

“No.” He’d been back and forth across Europe more times than he could count, but he’d never been sent to Africa. He would never see it now. Not with his own eyes, but perhaps there was another way. “Tell me about it.”

“We arrived when I was sixteen. It was the first trip without Anne. She had married that summer and gone for holiday to Brighton with her husband.”

“This is your sister who is blind?”

“I only have one sister, yes. She has a little girl, my niece, Rose. Rose is three, and I am hoping the vicar will allow me to visit my sister and little Rose at Christmas.”

“Is her husband blind?”

“No. He is a printer. In fact, that is how the two of them met. I had taught Anne night writing—as I should be teaching you”—her voice was tinged with censure—“And we had been searching for a printer who might print some pamphlets or poems—something short to begin with—in night writing so Anne could practice reading something other than my drivel.

“Mr. Thomson agreed to try, and he and Anne fell in love.”

“What about the pamphlets or poems?”

“He did print a few, but Monsieur Barbier’s method seems rather inefficient and lengthy. I don’t see how we could ever print books without using