Page 60 of A Stolen Heart

“What?”

Her hands were already busy at his shirt, unbuttoning it down the front. He reached up to take her hands, and she began to move her hips again, freed from his restraint.

“Dammit!” He grabbed her hips once more, and she was free to finish unbuttoning his shirt. She bent and began to kiss his skin, traveling down the tender flesh of his neck and onto his chest. She tasted and licked and kissed, exploring every inch of him, every texture and taste.

Thorpe cursed, vividly and at length, as her hands and mouth roamed his chest, arousing him until he was so hard he thought he must burst. Then she unbuttoned his trousers, her hand slipping inside.

“No!” He set her firmly on the other seat and buttoned his clothes. “Alexandra, stop it! You cannot do this.”

She started to protest, but he held up his hand. “No. Just sit there.”

But he found that even sitting and looking at her was an erotic experience. With that flimsy excuse for a dress, she might as well have been naked. The dress, in fact, was perhaps even worse, for he could see the material lightly scraping over her engorged nipples, arousing them with every breath she took. And her face, the eyes luminous with passion, the lips swollen and damp from his kisses, her cheeks flushed—it took all the control he could muster not to lean across and kiss her.

It was a relief when the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his house and he was able to get out of the cramped quarters. He wrapped his jacket tightly around her shoulders, so that it decently covered most of her. Then he climbed out and reached in to lift her out.

“I can walk,” Alexandra protested.

“Not very well,” he retorted dryly. “Trust me. It will be much better this way.”

He carried her into the house, saying over his shoulder, “Murdock, send a message to her aunt that she is well and I’ll bring her home tomorrow morning. And tell Punwati I want coffee and a meal brought to my room.”

He could not take Alexandra to her house in this condition, he thought. Her aunt would probably collapse when she saw the way Alexandra was dressed—let alone the way she was acting. He would have to do what he could to overcome the drugs in her body and take her home when she was more presentable.

Thorpe carried Alexandra up the stairs and into his bedroom. He set her on the floor. Alexandra let out a sigh of pleasure, turning to look at the room.

“Sebastian…it’s beautiful.”

Though Thorpe had many Indian things scattered throughout his house, it was in his bedroom that he had allowed his love of the country to run free. Thick Indian carpets covered the floor, soft and warm beneath one’s feet, and there were large plush cushions in jewellike colors scattered around the room to sit on. The bed was low and made of teak, with intricate carvings and ivory inlays. The tall English ceiling had been lowered and warmed by swags of material in the same rich tones as the pillows, stretching from the edges of the room to the center, so that the ceiling resembled a rich, Oriental tent. It was a room of texture and color, deeply sensuous, and Alexandra responded to it instinctively.

She crossed to the bed and leaned down, rubbing her hands along the peacock-blue velvet covering. Then she stretched out on the bed, moving against it a little.

Thorpe, watching her, struggled to suppress his desire. He had thought about Alexandra in this room, on his bed, her black hair spread out against the vivid color of the spread, and seeing the reality shook him. It was hard to remember that she was not in full possession of her faculties.

“You need to get out of those clothes,” he told her, striving for a matter-of-fact tone, but the implication of his words hovered in the air around them, charging it with passion.

Irritated, he strode to the large wardrobe against the far wall and pulled out a heavy brocade dressing gown. It was his and, of course, far too large for Alexandra, but it would more than cover her, and that was all that mattered at the moment. He turned to take it to her and stopped, his breath suddenly short in his throat.

Alexandra had disrobed and was standing beside his bed, utterly nude, the flimsy white dress lying in a frothy pool at her feet.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I meant for you to go behind that screen.”

Alexandra glanced toward the carved screen in one corner of the room. “Why?”

“Never mind. Just put this on,” he said gruffly, tossing the dressing gown onto the bed.

“But it’s so heavy.” Alexandra picked it up, making a face. “I don’t want to. I’m hot.”

“Just do it!”

Shrugging, Alexandra put her arms into it. The sleeves hung ludicrously over her hands, and the hem fell in a sort of train behind her. She did not close and sash it. A wide swath of white skin was exposed down the front, which was, perhaps, even more provocative than her entirely nude state had been.

Clenching his teeth, Sebastian walked to her and wrapped the robe around her, tying the sash with quick, jerky movements. When he was finished, the robe was closed, but the lapels gaped, offering a shadowy glimpse of her breasts and leaving a line open all the way down to her waist. He wished he had something better to put over her—like a tent, perhaps.

There was a knock on the door, and Sebastian opened it to his butler. Punwati, his usual imperturbable expression unchanged, set the tray on a low table and bowed, then left the room, all without casting a glance in Alexandra’s direction. Sebastian poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Alexandra.

She looked at it. “I don’t want it.”

“Drink it anyway. It will help you.”