Page 15 of Cold November Rake
It didn't help that her husband was built like a Roman god.
Sutton had the sort of body she had only ever seen in marble, in the hushed galleries of Florence, where she had once stood before a statue of a naked man for a full quarter of an hour, telling herself she was merely appreciating form.
He was every bit as beautiful: broad shoulders, a chest dusted with red-gold hair, a flat stomach tightening with every breath.
Only the statues had been cold. Sutton was anything but.
He was so warm beneath her fingers that she began to sweat.
Or perhaps it was not his heat causing that reaction, but his nearness.
She swallowed and shook her head.
Concentrate on the task, Temperance. You can lust after your husband after he is all patched up.
If only he could hear her thoughts.
What would he think of her?
She finished stitching, tied off the thread, and cut it. Then she dipped a fresh cloth into the warm water and wiped the dried blood from his skin.
She shifted closer and steadied herself by setting a hand on his thigh.
He hissed.
Temperance snatched her hand back. "Did I hurt you?"
"Not exactly," he said tightly.
"What do you mean, not exactly? Is your thigh injured as well?"
"No, it's not."
Temperance didn't believe it for a moment.
"Let me see."
He swallowed loudly. "That is not going to help, I promise."
"How can you say that if I don't see your wound?"
"There is no wound. Please." He caught her hand in his and redirected it away from his body. "Finish what you're doing."
No wound? Then why—?
Her gaze dropped to his thigh, then traveled up. There was a distinct tenting in his breeches.
Oh...
Temperance's cheeks grew alarmingly hot.
It seemed she was not the only one affected by their closeness.
"While we are on the subject," he said suddenly, his voice low and rasping. Temperance could have sworn his gaze flickered to her lips. "Something occurred to me while I was being attacked tonight."
What did being attacked have to do with the subject?
"What's that?"
