Molly by Peggy Webb Page B

of his laughter echoed around the
bedroom. He wasn’t supposed to be laughing, darn his ornery hide.
She’d give him something to laugh about.
    Feeling bolder now that he was tied down, she
bent over and reached for his briefs. He shivered when she touched
him. She’d never known that touching a man in such an intimate way
would make her feel like this—triumphant and uncertain, all at the
same time. There was something mysterious and magical about that
unseen, untouched flesh below a man’s waistband.
    Molly’s fingers tingled and her palms felt
sweaty. Biting her lower lip, she began to inch his briefs
downward. There was no sound in the room except his harsh
breathing. Her hands clenched involuntarily, and she pinched his
smooth, forbidden skin. His back arched, and all she could see was
the dark swirl of hair on his flat stomach, intriguing,
silky-looking hair that disappeared into his briefs.
    She closed her eyes. There was a small sound
in the room, a low moaning, as if the night wind had crept under
the windowpane and sighed with pleasure.
    “Did you say something, my dear?” Samuel’s
voice was soft and wickedly seductive.
    Molly’s eyes snapped open and her head jerked
up. A flush heated her cheeks as she realized that
she’d
made the sound. That wouldn’t do at all. She had to control
herself. She had to finish the game.
    “I was just clearing my throat.”
    “That’s what I thought you were doing. Carry
on.”
    He stretched, and she’d swear that he wiggled
his hips just to spite her. She squeezed her eyes shut again and
grabbed his briefs. Nothing was going to stop her. She jerked, and
the darned ornery things got stuck. It was like trying to peel a
banana whose skin had been glued to the fruit. She hadn’t counted
on that. Ignorance was not bliss at all: it was embarrassment.
    Sweat popped out on her brow, and she tried
again. She felt his hips lifting, and the offending garment slid
free. That wretched, arrogant man had actually
helped
her.
She was too relieved to care.
    With her eyes still closed, she got off the
bed. She felt a little light-headed, and had to grasp a bedpost for
balance. She drew two quick breaths, then opened her eyes and
headed for the safety of a chair across the room. She carefully
avoided looking at the bed.
    His wicked chuckle followed her all the way.
She sat down in the chair and gripped the arms.
    “How does it feel to be my captive,
Samuel?”
    “Why don’t you look and see how it
feels?”
    She forced herself to look at him. She’d have
to do it eventually, anyhow. Samuel Adams, naked on his bed, was an
awesome sight. How he could manage to look like a warrior god with
his hands tied with red silk ribbons was beyond her. But he
was
tied up. She’d have to remember that.
    She smiled at him. “Every now and then, men
have to be shown who’s the boss.”
    “Is that all you’re going to do? I’m
disappointed.”
    “Perhaps this will make you feel better.” She
picked up a sketchpad and a pencil lying beside her chair. She
worked quickly, relying on her memory, sketching Samuel’s dark hair
and Roman nose and sensuous lips. Next she drew the broad chest.
She didn’t have to look at the bed to see it. It was forever etched
in her memory.
    He looked at her bent head. The silky golden
hair lay against one very pink, very flushed cheek. That appealing
aura of innocence glowed about her. He lay against the pillows,
content to wait a while longer. And to watch.
    “The naked body is a work of art,
Samuel.”
    “It’s also a very efficient machine, designed
for work... and for love.”
    “You still think it belongs only in the
bedroom?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll show you.” She looked up from her
sketchbook to get the exact fluid line of hip and leg. His body
mocked her. So did his smile.
    She bent over her work again and quickly
finished the sketch. It was a talent she’d learned from the street
artists in Paris. When she’d finished, she stood up and tore