Page 116 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Lord Shelton, who was currently molded more closely to her body than any blanket had ever been.

Stacia’s heart pounded so hard she could hear the actual thud, whoosh. Thud, whoosh. Thud, whoosh.

His chest rose and fell slowly and deeply, pressing hard muscle against her shoulder blades. His arm was tight around her ribcage and brushing the undersides of her uncorseted breasts.

One heavy thigh was slung over hers, the slight, but constant tension in the powerful limb keeping her tucked snugly against him.

And there was something else. Something…hard pressed against her lower back.

Her entire body tensed when she realized just what it was.

Calm down, she told herself. And quit panting like an exhausted foxhound.

Stacia had to tell herself that several times before she finally listened.

You might as well enjoy this while he is deeply asleep.

She chewed her lip, struck by the logic of the suggestion. Rather than wake him, as she should, she allowed herself a moment to just…feel.

Curiosity, truly her besetting sin, made her push her bottom toward him slightly. Surely, he could not be as long and—

He moaned softly and his arm snugged around her, like a snake squeezing its prey, pulling her even closer, until his membrum virile slotted between the cheeks of her bottom, the iron hard ridge thrusting against a part of her that nothing had ever rubbed against before.

She opened her mouth but still couldn’t seem to draw in enough air.

Dear God, he was…monstrous!

Like the coward she was, Stacia slowly, painstakingly, tried to inch away, but he mumbled something and then rolled his hips, grinding his arousal against her. A low rumble of pleasure vibrated from his body to hers, and then he did it again, the hard prominence grazing her skin even through two layers of muslin and the soft doeskin of his breeches.

“My lord?” Stacia whispered, barely able to hear her voice over the pounding of her heart.

His hips fell into a lazy rhythm.

“My lord!” she yelped.

The big body behind her jolted and stiffened—all of it, this time, not just the fascinating part—and his arm briefly tightened before releasing her, as if it was a struggle to do so.

“Miss Martin.” His voice was gravelly with sleep. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon.” He lifted his arm and thigh and rolled off her.

Stacia remained on her side, turned away and clinging to the mattress as it shifted, his weight threatening to roll her body his way.

The bed shifted yet again and was followed by the soft thuds of feet hitting the floor. A moment later she was no longer in danger of rolling toward him.

The old plank flooring squeaked as he shuffled across it and—

Thwack!

“Bloody hell!”

Stacia had to bite her lip to smother a laugh. “Are you hurt, my lord?”

He merely grunted. Somebody woke up grumpy.

Deciding it was safe to look, she turned over and propped her head on her hand, squinting in the direction of the sitting area, where there were sounds of the grate being moved and coals being stirred.

All was darkness until slowly, a faint red glow spread over his crouching figure. He threw more kindling and fuel onto the fire, poked it until it blazed, and then stood. His body stood out in sharp relief against the light from the fire, the thin linen of his shirt doing nothing to conceal the magnificent chest and shoulders beneath it.

Stacia could not look away.