confinement. Pointed? Tear-dropped? Round? What color would her nipples be? Would they be big? Small? Pert? Or flat? It was an agony of delightful possibilities. A game of wondering how much torment a man could take before he acquired the knowledge.
Win had played that game before. He remembered the sharp sweetness of it. And he almost laughed now at the memory. For he now knew there was another far crueler sort of pain. That in knowing precisely, with vivid recollection, just what a man was missing out on. Imagination was a shadow of reality. Win knew what Poppy tasted like. That her breasts were small yet shapely little handfuls. He knew the exact shade and texture of her nipples. The very color her skin would flush when he pushed into her.
Ignorance was, as they say, bloody, buggering bliss. Knowledge, on the other hand, was an acute pain. A pain, to be precise, in his cock. Stuck as he was in a small coach with the object of his desire as they made their way to Farleigh, his cock was none too happy. Discreetly as he could, he adjusted himself and forced his gaze away from the cool length of her throat. He wanted to lick that expanse of skin, feel the throb of her pulse against him. He craved her flavor as a man imprisoned craves a juicy bite of meat.
He was an Englishman, for God’s sake. He’d been raised on the denial of pleasure and control of one’s wants. Only he’d never been able to master those things in regard to Poppy. Now, he’d cut himself off entirely. Like a bloody imbecile. At the very least, he ought to have joined Talent in the servants’ coach and had Mary Chase ride with Poppy.
No words were spoken as they rode onward. Which was for the best. He couldn’t think of what to say that would not draw himself closer into her orbit. And that was the problem: he wanted to be in her orbit. To be around her was the difference between going through the motions of the day and feeling every breath.
Poppy’s stomach made a little growl, pulling him from his self-pity. Her lips flattened at the sound. He almost smiled, save her posture grew so rigid and the clench of her hands upon her lap so tight, that he knew she would not welcome it. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small bag of chestnuts.
Her eyes went round as he handed them to her. But she did not refuse. Her nimble fingers worked in a near greedy fashion as she stuffed a chestnut into her mouth. “I didn’t know you to carry food around in your pocket.” She munched industriously on another nut. As they hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences since their argument, her words came out stilted and awkward.
“I don’t, generally. Here…” He pulled a flask filled with cool apple cider out of his other pocket. She snatched it up and took a deep drink. “Save I’ve heard from some of the chaps that ladies in your condition are apt to need more sustenance.” And if Poppy’s appetite for the last few days was any indication, she needed a bit more than most.
Slowly she lowered the flask and peered at him. “These things are for me?”
“Of course.”
It was clear that she did not expect him to look after her needs. Her hands fell to her lap, one hand clutching the chestnuts and the other the flask. She stared at him for a good moment, in which he had the irritating urge to look away, then she tucked the flask at her hip and ate another nut. “Thank you, Win.”
“It is the least I can do. After all, I wouldn’t want you to become irritable with hunger.” He gave her a tight smile, for he didn’t want her to see how much he enjoyed caring for her just now, not when she obviously believed it was no longer his duty, or his right. “A man learns to fear for his life when that occurs.”
“Ha.” She said it shortly, but good humor crinkled the corners of her eyes. The empty chestnut bag crumpled in her hand, and then she peered at him again, a thorough inspection that had him resting one arm casually over his lap to hide certain evidence.
“What else have you got for me, then?”
His breath hitched before he realized she was referring to food. Perfect. He gave her another smile.