Corbin's Fancy by Linda Lael Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

“We’ll build a rabbit hutch,” he said. “But first, I want another taste of you. Nourish me, Fancy.”
    Fancy willed her hands to rise up and stop the steady baring of her breasts, but they would not. “You can’t mean—”
    “I want a breast,” he said, bending his head, closing his mouth over one camisole-sheltered nipple, leaving a moistness there to taunt the puckering treasure beneath. “Nothing more, but nothing less, either.”
    His voice was sleepy and compelling and Fancy ached to grant him what he asked. “N–Not here—” she argued, in a choked little voice.
    Jeff smiled and caught her hand in his; the towel was still draped over her shoulders and she arranged it to cover her gaping bodice. He led her into a small parlor off the kitchen, sat her down at the end of a long sofa, and then draped himself, on his side, across her lap.
    And Fancy bared one plump breast to nurse him, loving every thrilling moment, every gentle nip of his teeth, every greedy suckling, every flick of his tongue. At the same time, she hated Jeff Corbin for being able to make her do such an outrageous thing so willingly.
    Finally, when he’d had his fill, he calmly replaced her moistened camisole and buttoned her dress.
    Fancy was both relieved and disappointed. While it would certainly have been imprudent to let him take her again, her entire being ached for just that.
    Maddeningly, he knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling. He patted her cheek in a rather patronizing fashion and muttered, “You’ll be tender for a while.”
    Fancy colored richly but said nothing. The gauzy fabric of her camisole clung to her well-worked nipples, giving rise to a frantic and very unladylike urge to scratch.
    Jeff stood up, looking down at her, frowning slightly. “Why didn’t Temple make love to you?”
    It was too much. Fancy was already mortified by what she had done with this man, what she had allowed him to do to her. She shot to her feet and glared into his rugged, aristocratic face. “Temple Royce is a gentleman, unlike you!” she shouted, and the fact that she was lying through her teeth mattered not at all.
    To Fancy’s surprise, Jeff flung back his head and laughed a great, roaring, lion laugh. “Royce, a gentleman!”
    “What’s so funny about that? He wanted me to save myself for marriage.”
    Jeff continued to laugh.
    Fancy stomped one foot. “Well, he did!”
    Finally, Jeff’s amusement began to subside. Replacing it was something far more alarming—a glitter of dislike lurked in the dark blue eyes. “It’s far more likely that he was saving you for one of the backrooms on the Silver Shadow, Fancy, and we both know it.”
    Speechless with humiliation and impotent rage, Fancy tried to press past Jeff Corbin. She would pack her things, collect Hershel, and leave this wretched, wonderful place before anyone could change her mind.
    Except that Jeff caught her arm and pulled her back. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly.
    She gazed up at him, unable to speak for the torrent of conflicting emotions washing over her. She despised this man and yet she needed him, too. Perhaps she even loved him.
    Fancy shuddered at the thought.
    He drew her close; she felt again the hard strength of his chest and thighs, the warmth of his bare flesh. “Cold?” he breathed.
    She pulled back. “Put on your shirt!” she scowled.
    He chuckled and, incredibly, did as he was told. By the time Keith and Alva returned from church, a lovely dark-haired woman perched on the buggyseat between them, Fancy and Jeff were kneeling in the side yard—industriously building a rabbit hutch.
    *   *   *
    Keith was both pleased and unsettled by the change in his brother. It was nothing short of a miracle that Jeff was out of his room, actually doing something constructive, and yet there was an elusive element in his bearing, and Fancy’s, too, that boded ill.
    With the softness of Amelie pressed so close to him, it was natural that Keith would