Free My Fair Mistress by Tracy Anne Warren Page B

his face, she knew she had. Her heart stuttered in her chest, excitement clashing with trepidation. She quivered, vitally aware that she’d never before performed such a service for a man.
    Dare I do so now?
    Rafe forced himself to relax, waiting to see if she would do as he asked. In the past hour, he’d brought her a long way. Challenged her assumptions and sensibilities about herself, and about her own capacity for passion.
    Her husband had obviously been an arrogant, self-important ass who hadn’t cared for anyone but himself. Clearly, he’d treated Julianna with callous disregard, taking her with no thought for her feelings or her needs. All the man must have cared about was using her for breeding stock. How disappointed he must have been when she couldn’t be brought to foal!
    Well, all of that was in her past now, and she would find no such mistreatment here in his bed.
    He studied her as she lay naked before him, her clean, shiny hair hanging dark as the veil of night over her shoulders, reaching nearly to her waist. Her gorgeous breasts peeped from beneath that hair, round and ripe and pert—a perfect fit inside his hands. Below them, her waist was hourglass tiny, her hips flaring out in a generous feminine curve, her legs long, soft, and supple.
    When she made no move toward him, he decided his request must indeed be too much for her. He should not be surprised given her shyness, he thought in resignation. There would be time enough in the coming weeks to persuade her.
    But before he could act, she reached out and laid an elegant hand upon one of his shirtsleeves. His erection jumped as if she’d touched him there instead. Slowly she went to work on his cuff buttons, slipping them free one fastening at a time. Once she was done with that, she reached upward to work loose another trio of buttons at his neck.
    His hunger raged. He swallowed against it as her cool fingers brushed along the hot skin of his throat.
    One. Two. Three.
    It seemed as if an eternity passed while she opened his collar, the edges of his shirt hanging open to mid-chest. Done, her gaze lowered, a tiny line forming between her lovely brows.
    He held his breath as her little hands hovered. Will she continue? Does she have the courage?
    He sent up a silent prayer of thanks when she gave her answer by grasping his shirt and yanking loose the tails. In a rush of movement, she pulled the linen up over his arms and head, then away. Clutching the shirt, she shook out the garment before leaning sideways to drape it neatly at the foot of the bed. Her breasts jiggled, sweet and lush.
    A wild moan leapt into his throat. Rafe tightened his fists at his sides and fought the urge to tumble her back across the bed and be done with this torture. He could have his pantaloons freed in a thrice and be settled between her thighs, kissing her and taking her as his body was urging him to do. But he didn’t wish to alarm her, nor ruin the gradual trust building between them. Biting the edge of his lip, he fought for patience, knowing his satisfaction would be sweet in the end.
    She shifted back, her gaze falling upon his naked chest. He could see her curiosity, along with a kind of rapt fascination. Holding himself still, he let her inspect him—his broad shoulders, his long arms, and his firm chest with its thatch of dark curling hair.
    He hoped she liked what she saw. Women usually cooed when he stripped off his shirt, wanting to run their hands over his muscles and naked skin.
    But she said nothing, just swallowed and leaned down to his feet to roll off his stockings. He hid a smile, her avoidance of his pantaloons painfully obvious. She set the stockings atop his discarded shirt.
    Leaning back on his elbows, he waited, watching as she considered his last item of clothing and the prominent bulge straining against the fabric. Rafe was beginning to think he was going to have to remove the garment himself, after all, when she gathered her courage on a swift