The Gift of Love (The Book of Love #8) - Meara Platt Page 0,89
He realized his chest was coated with that slimy substance. “Blast. Perhaps you are better off with Heather. I can’t blame you for not wanting to get near me.”
“It isn’t that. My nose has adjusted to the odor. And it isn’t you who smells bad, it’s just that poultice. I could use your help with these stays and laces.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “If you’re all right with it.”
He groaned. “I’m more than all right having you in bed with me. If your nose can take it, then hop in.” But he silently cursed his injury as he watched her slip the gown off her body and carefully set it over the chair. She then sat in the chair to take off her shoes and stockings.
He was the one who ought to be doing this for her, who ought to be sliding his hands along her body, holding her and kissing every delectable inch of her.
When she rose to remove her chemise, his breath caught. She stood outlined in the fire’s glow, the fabric so delicately thin, he could see the dark patch at the junction of her thighs and the dark rose tips of her breasts.
He closed his eyes and quietly shuddered, trying to quell his low-brain frenzy.
He knew she’d be beautiful.
Watching her undress was a thing of splendor.
It did not matter that she had moved to hide behind the chair while trying to quickly slip off the chemise and don her equally thin nightrail. It was a skimpy, silken thing that hugged her body and showed more of her nicely endowed chest than it hid.
Whoever designed this garment, knew what they were doing.
Those glimpses of her skin had him excited, he would admit. But it was those parts strategically hidden that had his eyes bulging and his brain working double time. He needed to see what lay beneath.
He’d read about this effect in the book. It wasn’t a matter of curiosity or even urgency. It was a primal urge that sprang from the depths of his soul, the first thing his primal brain sought, and the first thing his eyes went to. Her breasts. The source of life for his offspring.
The source of pleasure and desire for him.
She climbed into bed beside him, slipping under the covers so that the only barrier between them was her soon to be discarded nightrail.
Next, he had to figure out how to pleasure her without sliming her or the bedcovers...or puncturing his lung again. He gave it considerable thought as she wrapped her lovely body against his arm and nestled close.
In truth, he knew just how to accomplish it. However, Dahlia would need some convincing because this was not something one sprang on one’s innocent wife.
Although she was not shy about assuming her wifely duties, this one was too much to ask of her this first time out.
She was not going to hop atop him and start dancing with abandon on his private parts.
He lay in the dark for a while longer before finally turning to her. “Queen Pea...”
She gave a little snuffle in response, then her breaths became smooth and even.
He glanced up at the ceiling and quietly groaned.
She had fallen asleep.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her soft palm. “I love you,” he whispered and fell back to sleep himself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ronan had dutifully remained in bed, following Dr. Farthingale’s instructions to the letter for the past week, which meant he had not been allowed to return to his parliamentary duties on Monday or any other day, and he had not yet claimed Dahlia properly as his wife. Today, he was going to take care of these two important matters.
The first was to attend the Parliament session on the navy budget vote. The Lord Admiral had done his best to retain the support previously secured, but Ronan had been the linchpin during these negotiations and knew his absence had hurt their position. He needed to be there today to herd these lords back in the proper direction.
The second important matter was to finally consummate his marriage to Dahlia. Nothing was going to stop him from this undertaking. No revolting unguent. No raw, aching bones.
Not even doctor’s orders.
He was going to bed his wife tonight and had no intention of shirking that duty.
He had just stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist when Dahlia came in. “Oh, my heavens.” Her eyes rounded, and she gaped at him.