as pink as this garment.”
He sighed. This was not proceeding at all according to plan. Miss Havershaw apparently had no interest in maps and lectures. Still, the hour was late and there would be opportunities for more formal lessons in the days ahead. If only for this one evening he could indulge Miss Havershaw in her appreciation of the artistry in the munisak. There’d be no harm. Leaning back against the desk, he abandoned his maps and raised his gaze to the robe dancing on unfelt air currents.
“The desert light and sand in central Asia share a complex relationship. One moment you believe you can see colors and shapes so clear you can almost touch them, and then, in a blink of an eye, they disappear. I’ve found that the heat and unending sand can be both bloody tortuous and lovely at the same time.” Not unlike the naked Miss Havershaw.
A bulge began to push against his pants. He silently cursed and stepped over to the wooden globe stand so as to be partially hidden from her view. He needed to forget, somehow, that she was luscious and naked if they were to effectively work together, but his traitorous body fought that notion.
The munisak swung high in the air, the bottom flaring out as if to take flight. Against his better judgment, he found himself asking, “Would you care for some assistance putting it on?”
“I believe I can manage.”
No shimmering mirage had ever intrigued him as did this magnificent floating robe. It lightly settled on her invisible shoulders, one brilliant sleeve straightened out before bending, then the other. The front edges of the robe nearly touched.
“It fastens by that little red tie.” He crooked his finger at the dangling ribbon, which if memory served correctly, should be in the vicinity right below her breasts. The bulge thickened.
“Yes, I can see that, Mr. Locke.”
However, rather than the ribbon magically looping itself in the fashion of a bow, the sleeves reached toward the ceiling before bending back at the elbow. The movement caused the unfastened robe to splay far apart before returning to its original position. Knowing what had just been exposed to his view—if only he could have seen it—caused his throat to constrict. That simple parting of the robe was clearly the most sensuous thing he had ever witnessed—or not witnessed.
“That’s better,” she said. “I had to lift my hair from beneath the robe.”
“Your hair?” His voice sounded tight and strained to his own ears, and why not? Lord, she made it impossible to think straight. He hadn’t anticipated that imagining what must lay just beneath the slit in the front of the robe would be far more stimulating than accepting that she was totally naked yet unseen somewhere in the room. His manhood throbbed.
“I’m afraid I don’t own any invisible hair pins or combs.”
Lord, he remembered her hair, soft with a shimmer like captured moonlight. It must be long and loose, as if she’d just stumbled from bed. He squinted as if that would allow him to see.
“I braid it into two thick ropes,” she said. “But without a ribbon to fasten it—”
“Locke? Are you back there?” Marcus! His voice boomed down the hall, mere steps from the doorway. What the devil was Marcus doing here?
The robe quickly sat in one of the chairs, then slumped to the side, letting the sleeves dangle over the wooden arm. Smart girl. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe the munisak had been carelessly tossed over an angled pillow on the chair.
James stepped away from the globe, hoping to intercept his friend before he entered the room, but he wasn’t fast enough. Of course, the painful bulge in his pants did nothing to assist speed. Marcus barged through the open doorway, his evening attire a bit disheveled, his cheeks flushed, and his voice a trifle too loud.
James grimaced. Judging from his demeanor, his friend had spent the better part of the evening in the gambling hells. While his spirits appeared
He sighed. This was not proceeding at all according to plan. Miss Havershaw apparently had no interest in maps and lectures. Still, the hour was late and there would be opportunities for more formal lessons in the days ahead. If only for this one evening he could indulge Miss Havershaw in her appreciation of the artistry in the munisak. There’d be no harm. Leaning back against the desk, he abandoned his maps and raised his gaze to the robe dancing on unfelt air currents.
“The desert light and sand in central Asia share a complex relationship. One moment you believe you can see colors and shapes so clear you can almost touch them, and then, in a blink of an eye, they disappear. I’ve found that the heat and unending sand can be both bloody tortuous and lovely at the same time.” Not unlike the naked Miss Havershaw.
A bulge began to push against his pants. He silently cursed and stepped over to the wooden globe stand so as to be partially hidden from her view. He needed to forget, somehow, that she was luscious and naked if they were to effectively work together, but his traitorous body fought that notion.
The munisak swung high in the air, the bottom flaring out as if to take flight. Against his better judgment, he found himself asking, “Would you care for some assistance putting it on?”
“I believe I can manage.”
No shimmering mirage had ever intrigued him as did this magnificent floating robe. It lightly settled on her invisible shoulders, one brilliant sleeve straightened out before bending, then the other. The front edges of the robe nearly touched.
“It fastens by that little red tie.” He crooked his finger at the dangling ribbon, which if memory served correctly, should be in the vicinity right below her breasts. The bulge thickened.
“Yes, I can see that, Mr. Locke.”
However, rather than the ribbon magically looping itself in the fashion of a bow, the sleeves reached toward the ceiling before bending back at the elbow. The movement caused the unfastened robe to splay far apart before returning to its original position. Knowing what had just been exposed to his view—if only he could have seen it—caused his throat to constrict. That simple parting of the robe was clearly the most sensuous thing he had ever witnessed—or not witnessed.
“That’s better,” she said. “I had to lift my hair from beneath the robe.”
“Your hair?” His voice sounded tight and strained to his own ears, and why not? Lord, she made it impossible to think straight. He hadn’t anticipated that imagining what must lay just beneath the slit in the front of the robe would be far more stimulating than accepting that she was totally naked yet unseen somewhere in the room. His manhood throbbed.
“I’m afraid I don’t own any invisible hair pins or combs.”
Lord, he remembered her hair, soft with a shimmer like captured moonlight. It must be long and loose, as if she’d just stumbled from bed. He squinted as if that would allow him to see.
“I braid it into two thick ropes,” she said. “But without a ribbon to fasten it—”
“Locke? Are you back there?” Marcus! His voice boomed down the hall, mere steps from the doorway. What the devil was Marcus doing here?
The robe quickly sat in one of the chairs, then slumped to the side, letting the sleeves dangle over the wooden arm. Smart girl. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe the munisak had been carelessly tossed over an angled pillow on the chair.
James stepped away from the globe, hoping to intercept his friend before he entered the room, but he wasn’t fast enough. Of course, the painful bulge in his pants did nothing to assist speed. Marcus barged through the open doorway, his evening attire a bit disheveled, his cheeks flushed, and his voice a trifle too loud.
James grimaced. Judging from his demeanor, his friend had spent the better part of the evening in the gambling hells. While his spirits appeared
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