Thorn turned the page upside down, just as she had. “What on earth is so fascinating? Except the size of Feather’s tool, which definitely falls in the category of an optimistic daydream.”
India filed that comment away to think about later. Who would wish for something that large to come anywhere near her most delicate parts?
“Do tell, India,” Thorn said, laughing aloud now. He turned the picture the other way.
“I was trying to see whether she was enjoying herself,” India confessed.
“See how her hands are flying out into the air like that? In my experience—which is not slight—she’s having a fine time. Screaming, I would guess.”
Another wave of heat concentrated between her legs. “ ‘Screaming’?” She didn’t know whether to be horrified or envious.
“With pleasure,” he added, turning the pages. “Feather is giving her everything she wants. Hell, look at this one.” He glanced up, his eyes alight with mischief. “She’s screaming here as well.”
India looked at the engraving for a good minute before she realized what Feather was doing with his head between the lady’s legs. And yes, the lady did seem to be experiencing an acute level of happiness. And her mouth was open, as Thorn noted.
She snapped to herself again. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s wretchedly inappropriate.”
Thorn shook his head at her. “Nothing wrong about it, India. You and I are friends.”
That stopped her on the very edge of flight. “Friends? You look at books of this nature with your friends?” Frankly, it was a scandalous notion.
“No, only with you. Come take a look at what he’s doing here. I’ve never tried it.”
“No!”
“I’ll come to you, in that case.” India rapidly backed away, until she found herself stopped by the bookcase.
“I don’t want to see it!”
Thorn stopped just in front of her, trapping her with his large body, so close his shoulder rubbed against hers, and she could smell his spicy, fragrant male smell, even hear the sound of his breathing.
“I suspect you’ve had to live like a nun in order to avoid being tossed from society, haven’t you? How old are you?” He looked her up and down. “Twenty-two?”
India sighed. “Twenty-six.”
“You’ve had to wrap yourself in virtuous white for twenty-six years. No wonder you’re retiring. That’s hellish.”
His smile, she registered, was dangerous to her peace of mind. And her virtue. She cleared her throat. “I must return to work, Thorn. And this conversation did not happen.”
“You mean that nuns aren’t allowed to ogle Feather’s better parts?” Thorn grinned at her. “I like this picture; don’t you?”
India glanced down and discovered that a young lady was bouncing on top of Feather, their bodies connected only by his extraordinary . . . whatever. And they appeared to be lying on a tree limb. “No!” she exclaimed.
He closed the book and dropped it on a shelf, leaning even closer and bracing his right arm over her head. “Those pictures are exaggerations. You do know that, don’t you, India?”
She scowled at him. “The matter is irrelevant.”
“It’s not irrelevant, because you’re about to marry. During my years at Eton, I saw hordes of men starkers. I can tell you this, India: whoever you marry will not compare to Feather.”
India felt, irrationally, that she should defend her future husband. “You don’t know that,” she objected. “I’m sure that he will be . . . everything that a man should be.”
Thorn’s grin was making that hot and muddled feeling spread all over her body. “It’s really irrelevant,” she repeated crossly.