The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(66)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Lucy smiled against his shoulder. “What did you do?”

“Well.” He rolled to his back, still holding her, and stretched one arm over his head. “First of all, I had to figure out a way to put on my breeches. Then I sat with her in a chair by the fire. Wrapped a blanket about both of us.”

“Did she fall back asleep?”

“No, she did not, the imp.” He scratched his chest. “Much like you, she wanted to talk.”

“I’m sorry. I can stop.”

“No,” he whispered. “I like talking to you like this.” He linked his fingers with hers on his chest.

“What did you talk about?”

He seemed to think for a bit. Finally, he sighed. “She told me Ethan used to talk to her when she had a bad dream. He’d tell her about, oh, dolls and puppies and her favorite sweets. Things like that. Things to take her mind off the nightmare.”

Lucy smiled. “So you talked to her about puppies?”

“Actually, no.” She saw his quick grin in the brightening room. “More like how to drive a phaeton. What to look for in horseflesh. The proper way to brew coffee and where, exactly, it comes from.”

“Where does coffee come from?” She pulled the coverlet over her shoulder.

“I told her Africa, where Pygmy workers train crocodiles to climb the trees and whack the coffee beans down with their tails.”

Lucy laughed. “Simon . . .”

“What else was I to say? It was three o’clock in the morning.”

“Is that how you’ll comfort me?”

“If you wish.” His fingers flexed against hers. “We could discuss tea, Chinese versus Indian, and where it grows and whether it’s true that it must be picked only by perfect female children below the age of six wearing crimson silk gloves and working by the light of a blue moon.”

“And if I’m not interested in tea and its production?” Lucy drew her foot across one of his calves.

He cleared his throat again. “Then perhaps you’d be entertained by discussing various breeds of horses. Those best for carriages and those best for—”

“No.” She disengaged her hand from his and stroked down over his belly.

“No?”

“Definitely, no.” She touched his manhood, running her fingers up its length and smoothing over the head. She loved touching him.

For a moment he breathed heavily. Then he spoke. “Do you—”

She gently squeezed.

“Ah, have some other idea in mind?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Holding firmly to his erection, she turned her face and bit his shoulder. He tasted of salt and musk.

Apparently that was his breaking point. He suddenly rolled toward her. “Turn over.” His voice was husky.

She complied, rubbing her bottom against his groin.

“Minx,” he muttered. He arranged her over his lower arm so she lay in his embrace.

“I think you should tell me about rose culture,” she murmured solemnly.

“Do you, indeed?” He draped his upper arm over her and ran his hand across her breasts.

“Yes.” She’d never tell him, but she found his voice unbearably sensuous sometimes. Feeling him all along her back and hearing him, but not seeing his face, made her shiver with a sudden erotic chill.

“Well, soil is most important.” He pinched a nipple.

She watched his elegant fingers against her flesh and bit her lip. “Dirt?”

He squeezed harder, making her gasp with the sharp prick of desire. “We rose enthusiasts prefer the word soil. It sounds so much more serious.”

“How is soil different from dirt?” She bumped back against him. His hardness slid over her bottom and lodged in the groove. She felt surrounded by his hot body. It made her feel small. Feminine.

“Ahh.” He cleared his throat. “It just is. Now listen. Manure.”

She bit back an inappropriate giggle. “That’s not romantic.”

He gently pulled her nipple, and she arched in reaction. “The choice of topic was yours.” His fingers wandered to her other breast and tweaked the tip there.

She swallowed. “Even so—”

“Hush.” He inserted his leg between her own and rubbed up.

His thigh caressed her just there, and she closed her eyes. “Mmm.”

“Manure is the key to good soil. Some suggest ground cattle bones, but they are heretics fit only for raising turnips.” His hand skimmed over her belly and down. “The manure must be applied in the fall and allowed to overwinter. Too late application causes burning of the plant.”

“R-really?” All her attention was on that hand.

He traced one finger delicately through the crease between thigh and mons, almost tickling her. He brushed her maiden hair and came to the other crease, hesitating. She squirmed impatiently. She could feel herself warming, growing wet with just the anticipation of what he would do next.

“I see you understand the significance of good manure. Now, think of your excitement”—his hand darted down and parted her lips—“when I discuss compost.”

“Oh.” He’d inserted a finger right into her.

“Yes.” She felt him nod behind her but she hardly cared. “You have the makings of a great rose horticulturist.”

She tried to tighten her thighs around his hand, but his leg prevented her. “Simon . . .”

He withdrew the finger and speared her again. She clenched helplessly around him.

“Compost, according to Sir Lazarus Lillipin, should consist of one part animal manure, three parts straw, and two parts vegetable remains.”

Another finger found her pearl of flesh and she moaned. It seemed almost decadent that a mere man could bring her such pleasure.

“These,” he still nattered on behind her, “to be placed in layers within a pile until said pile reaches the height of a short man. Lillipin makes no mention of how wide the pile should be, a grave omission in my own, rather learned opinion.”

“Simon.”

“My angel?” He flicked his finger, but not quite hard enough.

She tried to arch into his hand, but he still kept her imprisoned between his legs. She cleared her throat, but her voice still emerged huskily. “I don’t want to talk about roses anymore.”

He tsked behind her, although his own breathing had roughened. “It can be a dull subject, I admit, but you have been a very good pupil. I think you deserve a reward.”