you.”
Damn. He hadn’t meant it that way. “Let me say instead that you are talented and pretty. And your eyes are extraordinary.”
“I have never heard the word interesting defined in quite that way.” She became much occupied with placing the brushes back on the table, but he noted the color creeping into her cheeks.
James finished his lemonade and searched for a safer topic. “How long does this portrait process take?”
“Only a little more work today—the light is going.”
He let out a breath. It would not be so difficult, then.
“And I’ll need you tomorrow afternoon as well, when the light is better.”
“I see.” Yet as uncomfortable as it might be, he almost wished the painting would take longer—days, a week even. There was something deucedly compelling about this woman.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Of course.” He returned to the stool and tried to recapture his earlier pose. One would think that after sitting in the position for more than an hour he would remember how it felt, but Miss Strathmore did not even pick up her brush.
“More to the left, I think. Your shoulder was even with the edge of the frond.” She came to face him again. James tensed as she lifted her hand. Her touch brushed his skin, lingered against his cheek. Her eyes found his.
Without thought he caught her fingers and drew her hand to his lips. She gasped and he felt her shiver in response. He drew her forward, and she swayed into him and placed her palm against his chest. Heat burned into him from her touch.
“Mr. Huntington—”
He brought her closer and her hand slid up to grasp his shoulder. She was standing between his knees, the curve of her breasts brushing his shirt.
Mirroring her earlier touch, he set his fingers under her chin and lifted, tilting her face up. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, as sensuous as the heady flowers blooming around them, as enticing and irresistible. With a sense of inevitability, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were as kissable as he had thought—warm and soft. He deepened the kiss, pressing his mouth more firmly over hers to taste her sweetness.
She let out a sigh. He slipped his arm behind her, splaying his hand over the curve of her back, and she leaned further into his embrace, like a blossom seeking the light. Gods. Fire kindled in him at the press of her breasts against his chest, the speeding of her breath, the smoothness of her skin. He could feel the wild pounding of her heart as he moved his mouth over hers, devouring her with his lips as she had devoured him with her eyes. It was only fair that she be captive to his touch, his mouth, to the wild insistence that had gripped him the moment she had stepped into his arms.
His fingers tangled through her chestnut hair while he savored her, holding her close against him, warm and pliant. That same passion he had glimpsed while she painted now thrummed between them, alive and aware and full of desire. Her lips were nectar, and he could not drink enough of her.
The kiss was an eternal instant that lingered and flamed like a fire. Only the sound of Mrs. Hodges shifting on the cot sent them hurrying back into the containers of their bodies. James felt Lily pull away. She slipped out of his embrace and stood, eyes wide.
“No,” she said, but there was no sound, only her mouth forming the words. She took a step backwards, then without another word, turned and ran.
Lily slammed the door of her bedroom and leaned hard against it. Flashes of heat still pulsed through her and she let herself, just for a moment, relive the taste of his kiss. Her heart had nearly stopped beating when she stood between his knees and felt the delicious inevitability—the warmth of his breath, the first brush of his mouth against hers, the sweet fire of his kiss.
How could she have been so weak?
She pulled off her apron and wadded it into a ball, throwing it toward the bed. She knew where this path could lead—she had
Damn. He hadn’t meant it that way. “Let me say instead that you are talented and pretty. And your eyes are extraordinary.”
“I have never heard the word interesting defined in quite that way.” She became much occupied with placing the brushes back on the table, but he noted the color creeping into her cheeks.
James finished his lemonade and searched for a safer topic. “How long does this portrait process take?”
“Only a little more work today—the light is going.”
He let out a breath. It would not be so difficult, then.
“And I’ll need you tomorrow afternoon as well, when the light is better.”
“I see.” Yet as uncomfortable as it might be, he almost wished the painting would take longer—days, a week even. There was something deucedly compelling about this woman.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Of course.” He returned to the stool and tried to recapture his earlier pose. One would think that after sitting in the position for more than an hour he would remember how it felt, but Miss Strathmore did not even pick up her brush.
“More to the left, I think. Your shoulder was even with the edge of the frond.” She came to face him again. James tensed as she lifted her hand. Her touch brushed his skin, lingered against his cheek. Her eyes found his.
Without thought he caught her fingers and drew her hand to his lips. She gasped and he felt her shiver in response. He drew her forward, and she swayed into him and placed her palm against his chest. Heat burned into him from her touch.
“Mr. Huntington—”
He brought her closer and her hand slid up to grasp his shoulder. She was standing between his knees, the curve of her breasts brushing his shirt.
Mirroring her earlier touch, he set his fingers under her chin and lifted, tilting her face up. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, as sensuous as the heady flowers blooming around them, as enticing and irresistible. With a sense of inevitability, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were as kissable as he had thought—warm and soft. He deepened the kiss, pressing his mouth more firmly over hers to taste her sweetness.
She let out a sigh. He slipped his arm behind her, splaying his hand over the curve of her back, and she leaned further into his embrace, like a blossom seeking the light. Gods. Fire kindled in him at the press of her breasts against his chest, the speeding of her breath, the smoothness of her skin. He could feel the wild pounding of her heart as he moved his mouth over hers, devouring her with his lips as she had devoured him with her eyes. It was only fair that she be captive to his touch, his mouth, to the wild insistence that had gripped him the moment she had stepped into his arms.
His fingers tangled through her chestnut hair while he savored her, holding her close against him, warm and pliant. That same passion he had glimpsed while she painted now thrummed between them, alive and aware and full of desire. Her lips were nectar, and he could not drink enough of her.
The kiss was an eternal instant that lingered and flamed like a fire. Only the sound of Mrs. Hodges shifting on the cot sent them hurrying back into the containers of their bodies. James felt Lily pull away. She slipped out of his embrace and stood, eyes wide.
“No,” she said, but there was no sound, only her mouth forming the words. She took a step backwards, then without another word, turned and ran.
Lily slammed the door of her bedroom and leaned hard against it. Flashes of heat still pulsed through her and she let herself, just for a moment, relive the taste of his kiss. Her heart had nearly stopped beating when she stood between his knees and felt the delicious inevitability—the warmth of his breath, the first brush of his mouth against hers, the sweet fire of his kiss.
How could she have been so weak?
She pulled off her apron and wadded it into a ball, throwing it toward the bed. She knew where this path could lead—she had
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