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Ash followed the path her fingertips traced. He couldn’t see embroidery. He was a man; he saw breasts. Slight, enticing breasts squeezed by that tortured bodice. He enjoyed them almost as much as he enjoyed the air of determination pushing them high.
Manly vision is very narrow, to be sure.
Fortune was a heartless witch in perpetual anticipation of her monthly courses.
Love that imagery.
Not to mention, she was a vicar’s daughter. He’d always dreamed of debauching a vicar’s daughter. Really, what man hadn’t? However, he was not quite so diabolical as to accomplish it through extortion.
A gentleman has to have more class than that after all.
“Are you—” There seemed no way to say it but to say it. “Your Grace, are you trying to get me into your bed?” “Yes. Nightly. I said as much, not a minute ago. Are you listening at all?”
Honesty is always the best policy.
“If you don’t know the difference between a woman’s fingers and her womb, I would definitely not share a bed with you.”
“He’s been alone and is determined to remain that way. He doesn’t trust anyone, but he respects those who challenge him. I suspect that’s why you are here. He’s angry, resentful, bored, in more pain than he lets on—and you’ll either be the making of him, or he’ll be the ruin of you.”
“Darling is in the eye of the beholder.” Emma was already a bit out of breath as she retrieved the dropped shuttlecock. “If I choose to make a darling of you, there is nothing you can do about it.”
That…doesn’t sound like a bad thing.
“You really must give me something to call you,” she said. “If we go on like this, I’m going to need a name to cry out, and I don’t think you want it to be honeybee.”
Made me laugh out loud.
“There.” He stood back, chest heaving with exertion. “I made you a fire. You may now admire my manliness.”
Man make fire. Woman clap. Man puff chest out. Manly things.
“Maybe you’re nearing your monthly courses. I hear women become seething maelstroms of irrational emotion at that time.”
They certainly do when you accuse them of THAT.
Surely you know the feeling of infatuation. Everyone does. It’s not merely physical admiration. Your mind fixes on a person, and it’s as though you float through the days, singing a song that only has one word, thinking of nothing but the next time you’ll see them again.”
We are well acquainted, yes. Definitely not friends, most certainly enemies.
“I mean, it will end. These things always do. Either you wake from the spell, or you fall properly in love.”
And the former is most certainly more common, and thankfully so.
Maybe he was infatuated. All the symptoms were there. Though he knew she had flaws—many, many of them—he couldn’t pinpoint a cursed one at the moment. Her name kept running through his mind. The song with only one word.
Damn that disease. 😂
Infatuation was dangerous enough. It must stop here. If he allowed her in, Fate would surely laugh in his face. His own heart would backfire, explode to shrapnel, and he’d be as destroyed inside as he was without.
Raise the drawbridge, and release the crocodiles into the moat! She shall not get in, no sir!!
“After my injury, when I woke up in blinding pain and missing parts of myself, I looked down to see if my cock was still there. When I saw that it was, I said—fine, I suppose I want to live.”
Always have to check on the most important appendages, eh?
You are a dolt. Ignorant as dirt. This was more than infatuation. He’d allowed a foolish, irrational attachment to develop. Now something must be done about it.
This internal monologue is very familiar.
“I’ll make you a bargain. I won’t pretend I know how it feels when strange men stare at your tits, and you won’t pretend you know how it feels when people stare at my face.”
😂😂😂
“That’s always the way with cats,” Penny said. “They’re drawn to the person who wants nothing to do with them.
Contrary creatures to be sure.
“So what will you do?” She looked up at him, amused. “Bring a suit in Chancery? Your Honor, my wife dared to unclothe me. She proceeded to caress my person, with both hands and lips, against our sworn agreement to the contrary.” “Emma, you . . .” “And then”—she gave a theatrical gasp—“the disobedient wench did place her mouth on my engorged staff.” She gave him a slow, exploratory lick. “Jesus.”
😏
Although, to be fair, she suspected he was the sort of man who flirted with every woman he encountered.
Fuck off, book!
“I’ll explain it. On nearly every night since we married, and a goodly number of the days as well, you penetrated me with your manly organ and spilled your seed in the vicinity of my womb. That particular act—especially at the frequency we’ve practiced it—commonly results in conception.”
Oh, so THAT’s how it works…
