A Lady's Guide to Ruin by Kimmel Kathleen

Author:Kimmel, Kathleen [Kimmel, Kathleen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-10-06T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Something warm prodded against her belly. She cleared her throat. “Lord Fenbrook?” It came out husky with longing, with desire. She stifled it. Her breast was growing cold.

“Er,” he said. She felt him look down.

She was quite aware of the changes to a man’s anatomy when he became aroused. Quite familiar with said anatomy, as far as her hands and lips and thighs went. And she was quite sure that what bumped against her belly like a rooting pig was not Martin’s cock. Or at the least, she hoped not.

“I forgot that was there,” Martin said. His hands withdrew. She swiftly re-sheathed her breast and took a step back as he fumbled with a large satchel that hung by his hip. Something rustled. Then yipped. Then Martin drew a wriggling form out of the satchel and held it out to her. It pressed warmly against her, this time with a flurry of paws and the unmistakable sweep of a small, wet nose across her bosom. She yelped and grabbed at it on instinct.

“A dog,” she said. She could hold it easily with her hands hooked behind its front legs, the rest of it hanging, wriggling, below. It was short-haired and supremely soft, and nearly as intent on getting its tongue to her breasts as Martin had been. She cradled it closer—and higher—and it made do with baptizing her neck. She ran a hand over its head. It had a delightfully broad brow and the softest velvety ears she had ever touched. “Martin, what are you doing with a dog?”

“It’s for you,” he said. “I remembered that Jim Featherstock’s bitch had a litter and he’d asked if I wanted one. I’m afraid most of them were spoken for, but I thought you’d like him. He seemed to suit you.”

“Oh?” Joan ran her hands over the dog’s face again, earning a wet palm and a delighted whimper for her trouble. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one,” Martin said. “I would suggest Duke, but given that your last pet was a princess, it would be a step down for you.”

“He’s not a duke,” Joan said firmly. “A cat may be a princess regardless of her circumstance, but a dog must never outrank his master.”

“I wish that I could see you,” Martin said. His voice was rough. “I wish that I could see if you’re smiling.”

She pressed her forehead against the pup’s. He continued his ministrations on her chin and nose, mercifully bypassing her lips. He was so very soft, and hers, truly, and Martin had brought him. Because he’d listened to her silly speech about children. Because he had wanted to see her smile.

This time, her tears were her own. Joan’s tears, joining the sloppy wet of the pup’s kisses on her cheeks. She buried her face in his ruff, and he gave a distressed wiggle before settling in a heap over her shoulder.

“You’re crying,” Martin said, distress straining his words. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I’m smiling, too,” she said, and she was.

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