Page 19 of Bargaining with the Devil

She shook her head. “Not tonight.” Not because he’d called her out on it. And not because he’d made that remark about whether it was the whisky talking.

She hadn’t a drop of whisky in her, and she yearned to touch him just as much as she had the other night. But her eyes were less unruly this time. Her hands too.

“I couldn’t sleep. I have a difficult time with that most nights. I heard you out here.”

“I used to fall asleep the moment we were no longer at arms, when I was with the Rifles. I’ve lost the knack for it, a bit. I could tell you the surest way I know now to get myself to sleep, but I’m not sure you’ll want to hear it.”

The blasted man was luring her with those words, piquing her curiosity, and well he knew it. “Clearly you want to tell me.”

“I don’t know if I should, a stór.” The beginnings of a grin lay in the corners of his mouth. “It might be very shocking for you since ’tis to do with my cock.”

Nothing under the sun shocked her anymore. She’d lost a good bit of that naïvete in Gloucestershire two years ago and whatever dregs remained on the ship to France. She folded her arms across her bosom and raised a brow, waiting to listen to whatever outlandish thing having to do with his cock he meant to discuss.

“You want to hear it then?” His grin broadened a little, the expression that so clearly revealed he had a touch of the Devil in him. “I touch myself till I get good and aroused, get the blood flowing to my cock, get my body wound up tight, and then I bring myself off. You ever do that, Lucy? Make yourself feel so good you shatter?”

She did, sometimes. It wasn’t at all his business if she did.

“Aye, I see from your face you do. If you’re having trouble sleeping tonight, ’tis my recommendation.”

Truly, she should have walked away then and there, for if she had, she’d not have heard what he said next, softly: “I could help you through that, a mhuirnín. Talk to you while you do it.”

Insidious, the way the idea immediately wrapped itself around her and shot through her blood. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“I’ll not touch you. Won’t even look at you. Truly. We can sit on opposite sides of your door, each with a back against it, and do what makes us feel good on our own.”

Taking in air was suddenly difficult. “This is ridiculous.” Why was she entertaining this idea even a little? Except her voice hadn’t come out scornful or scoffing. It was breathy.

And he’d caught it. He leaned in closer, smiling. “A bit, mayhap. Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it.”

“Ridiculous,” she said again. And then, “Perhaps.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

She was definitely thinking about it, which was why she needed to leave the room. Now.

His smile sharpened before dropping abruptly, replaced by something more intent. “Lock the door. Lock it so you don’t worry about me coming in there. And if you tell me to stop talking, I will. And I’ll go away from the door. I won’t be lurking out here waiting to pounce. Aye?”

Perhaps she shouldn’t trust him . . . but she did. “I believe you.”

“You tell me a word now, where if you say it, that’s it. We stop.”

“I . . .”

“I mean it. You find a word.”

“Fine.” She cast her eyes around the room, searching mentally for something random while also avoiding his intent gaze. “Teakettle.”

He laughed.

“This is ridiculous anyway,” she said, affronted. “Perhaps⁠—”

“Nay, it’ll do. I can’t say I’ve ever yet heard a person in the throes of passion call out teakettle.”

“No, probably just thought about throwing one at you instead.”

He laughed again. “’Tis just you having those thoughts, a mhuirnín.”

“I highly doubt that,” she muttered.