Seven Minutes in Heaven(61)

“If you are still offering only seven minutes,” she said, flicking him a wicked glance from under her lashes, “I’d prefer to finish my dessert now.”

Her confidence made her glow, as if she were burning through life at a higher pitch than everyone else.

“Seven hours won’t be sufficient,” he said in a rough voice, putting her on her feet.

Her smile grew.

Eugenia had sadly few memories of marital pleasure, if the truth were told. After Andrew died, recollection was so painful that she pushed it away. With time, her memories had become fuzzy, overlaid with nostalgia.

But this pleasure, the ferocious bliss that Ward sparked in her?

She didn’t intend to forget this, ever.

Tonight, she would sleep with a burly, gorgeous man for no better reason than desire. Because he made her laugh, and he made her heart race.

Not for love or duty, but for pleasure.

“I would like a tour of your personal chamber,” she said, thinking dizzily that she sounded like a lady of the night. Perhaps a courtesan to a king.

It turned out that Ward’s bedchamber was enormous, with a huge bed canopied with curtains fringed in gold marooned in the center of the room like a pleasure boat.

Eugenia stopped short in surprise.

“It came with the house,” Ward said.

She turned to tease him, but he had torn off his coat and tossed it on a chair, and was pulling his shirt from his breeches.

Who cared about his ostentatious furniture? Without his coat, Ward’s shoulders were even broader than she’d thought, muscles rippling beneath the thin linen of his shirt.

She moved toward him feeling unbalanced, as if she’d drunk the better part of a bottle of wine. He had turned to the mantelpiece to light a candelabra, so she slid her hands around his shoulders from behind.

Even that slight touch made her thighs clench with longing. She rubbed her cheek against his back, happy to be out of his sight. She felt vulnerable and exposed, as if desire were written on her face for him to read.

“I love your smell,” she whispered, kissing his neck. It was powerful like the rest of him, the neck of a man who didn’t spend his days in tearooms.

He turned in her arms. “Eugenia Snowe,” he said, his voice dark and low, “may I remove your gown?”

“You may—after you remove your shirt.” When she first married, Andrew had had to coax her to undress. Even after three months as husband and wife, she still prepared for bed in her own chamber before welcoming him into her bed.

That was the memory of a different woman.

Without a word, his eyes on hers, Ward ripped off his shirt. Eugenia sucked in her breath. His skin was golden, stretched over powerful muscles. His nipples were flat coins flanking the faintest trail of chest hair, leading down a stomach grooved in horizontal ridges.

“Why do you have these?” she asked, reaching out and touching the muscles.

“Riding.” Ward stepped closer, crowding her hands so they flattened against his abdomen, reached behind her and began deftly unbuttoning her gown.

Eugenia spread her fingers, marveling at how white her skin looked in contrast to his. Sliding her hands to the sides of his waist didn’t reveal an ounce of softness. His body was all coiled power.

At last, her gown loosened, and he pulled it open and forward. Eugenia brought her hands to her bodice and took a step back before she allowed the gown to slide down her front.

Ward whispered something, a curse or a prayer. She allowed her gown to slip again, until it barely covered her nipples.

“Eugenia.” His eyes were black with desire.

“Yes?” Her corset was doing its job, holding her breasts where they could be best admired.

She fell back another step, until she could feel the warmth of the fire. A king’s courtesan would turn undressing into a performance. She dropped her hands even lower, baring her bosom; the scarlet bows adorning her corset nestled along the lower curve of her breasts.

“No chemise?” Ward’s voice was no more than a rasp.

“A chemise would interfere with the line of my gown,” Eugenia explained. She turned around and peeked over her shoulder. “Do you see how the smoothly my gown hugs my hips?”

She took his groan as agreement.

“If I let go, this gown will fall straight off,” she said, whirling about so her skirts billowed around her ankles.

Ward groaned again.

“You first,” she breathed.

Ward tore open the placket on his breeches and his cock sprang forward. It was thick and long, bobbing against the base of his stomach as if it had a will of its own.

“No smalls?” she asked, echoing his question about her chemise.

He shook his head.

“Because they would interfere with the line of your breeches?” she teased.