The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(24)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

And suddenly she knew. She froze for an eternal second and then slowly opened her eyes.

He was in the doorway, his gaze locked with hers—hot, hungry, and very, very male. Then he let his eyes drop and deliberately perused her. From her flushed cheeks to her naked breasts, still encircled in her hands like an offering, down to what the water barely hid. She could almost feel his gaze on her naked skin. His nostrils flared and his cheekbones went ruddy. He looked up again and met her eyes, and she saw in his look both salvation and damnation. At that moment she didn’t care. She wanted him.

He turned and left the room.

SIMON RAN UP THE STAIRS three at a time, his heart pounding, his breath coming hard and fast and his cock achingly erect. God! He hadn’t felt this primed since he’d been a lad sneaking peeks at a footman groping the giggling downstairs maid. Fourteen, and so full of lust it was all he thought of morning, noon, and night: pussy and how, exactly, he could get it.

He slammed into his room and shut the door behind him. He leaned his head against the wood and tried to catch his breath as his chest heaved. Absently, he rubbed his shoulder. Since that long-ago day, he’d bedded many women, both high and low, some of them a quick tumble, some longer affairs. He’d learned when a woman’s eyes signaled that she was available. He’d become something of a connoisseur of female flesh. Or so he’d thought. Right now, he felt like that fourteen-year-old boy again, equally excited and afraid.

He closed his eyes and remembered. He’d come back from sharing a nearly inedible dinner with Christian to find the house quiet. He’d presumed everyone was in bed. Not even Hedge had waited up to greet him; although, knowing Hedge, that hadn’t been a surprise. His foot had actually been on the first tread of the stairs when he’d hesitated. He didn’t know what had drawn him back to the little room. Maybe some male animal sense that knew what he would find there, what he would see. But all the same, he’d been dumbfounded. Turned like Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt.

Or in his case, a pillar of pure lust.

Lucy in her bath, the steam dewing her pale skin, curling the wisps of hair at her temples. Her head thrown back, her lips wet and parted . . .

Simon groaned and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches without opening his eyes.

Her neck had been arched, and he’d thought he could see the pulse beating at her throat, so white and soft. A drop of water lay pooled like a pearl in an oyster’s shell in the hollow between her collarbones.

He wrapped his hand around the hard meat between his legs and fisted up, the skin bunching before his fingers.

Her glorious, naked breasts, white and bell-shaped, and held, held in her small hands . . .

A faster downstroke, his hand wet with his leaking seed.

Her fingers encircling red, pointed nipples, as if she had been playing with them, arousing herself in her lonely bath.

He took his balls in his left hand and rolled them as he fisted rapidly with his right.

And as he had watched, she’d pinched her nipples between her fingers, squeezing and pulling those poor, sweet nubs until—

“Ahhh, God!” He jerked, his hips pumping mindlessly.

She’d moaned in pleasure.

Simon sighed and rolled his head against the wood. Once again he tried to catch his breath. Slowly, he drew out a handkerchief and wiped his hand, trying not to let self-loathing drown his soul. Then he walked to the tiny dresser and splashed water into the basin there. He doused his face and neck and hung his head, dripping, over the basin.

He was losing control.

A laugh burst from his lips, loud in the quiet room. He’d already lost control. God knew what he’d say to her on the morrow, his angel whom he’d ogled in her bath and whose privacy he’d stolen. Simon straightened painfully, dried his face, and lay down on the bed without bothering to undress.

It was past time to leave.

Chapter Six

Lucy pulled her gray woolen cloak more firmly about her shoulders. The wind was sharp this morning. It drove icy fingers under her skirt to wrap around her bones. Normally, she wouldn’t have ventured forth, especially on foot, but she needed time to think alone, and the house was full of men. True, there was only Papa, Hedge, and Simon, but she didn’t want to talk to two of them, and Hedge was irritating even in the best of circumstances. Hence a country ramble seemed in order.

Lucy kicked a pebble in the lane. How did one go about meeting a gentleman across the luncheon table when he’d last seen one nude and caressing one’s own breasts? If she wasn’t so embarrassed, she’d ask Patricia. Her friend would be sure to have some type of answer, even if it wasn’t the right one. And maybe Patricia would get her past this ghastly self-consciousness. It had been so horrible, last night when he’d seen her. Horrible, but also wonderful, in a secret, wicked way. She’d liked him looking at her. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she wished he’d stayed. Stayed and—

Footfalls, rapid and heavy, came from behind her.

Lucy suddenly realized she was alone in the road, no cottage in sight. Maiden Hill was usually a sleepy hamlet, but still . . . She whirled to confront whoever was about to overtake her.

It wasn’t a footpad.

No, much worse. It was Simon. She almost turned away again.

“Wait.” His voice was subdued. He opened his mouth again but shut it abruptly as if he didn’t know what else to say.

That unusual dumbness made her feel a little better. Could he possibly be as embarrassed as she? He’d stopped several paces away. He was bareheaded, without either a hat or a wig, and he stared at her mutely, his gray eyes yearning. Almost as if he needed something from her.

Tentatively, Lucy said, “I’m going for a walk over to the chalk downs. Would you like to accompany me?”

“Yes, please, most forgiving of angels.”

And suddenly it was all right. She set off once again, and he measured his stride to hers.

“In the spring, these woods are full of bluebells.” She gestured to the surrounding trees. “It’s really too bad you’ve come this time of year when everything is so bleak.”

“I shall try to be set upon in summer on the next occasion,” he murmured.

“Spring, actually.”

He glanced at her.

She smiled wryly. “That’s when the bluebells bloom.”

“Ah.”

“When I was young, Mama used to bring David and me here for picnics in the spring after we’d been cooped up inside all winter. Papa was away at sea most of the time, naturally. David and I would pick as many bluebells as our arms could hold and dump them into her lap.”