He shouldn’t tease her, not when she was so obviously distressed over what she perceived as a fatal flaw in her character. But he seemed unable to convince her that, far from hurting him, she’d helped him. Maybe his words couldn’t convince her. But he could show her. Gliding his fingertips in soft circles over her hip, he coaxed, “If you’re so convinced you’ve done something wrong, I know how you could apologize.” “But I have—” “No. We have a saying, actions speak louder than words.” Slowly, she nodded. “Ní bheathaíonn na briathra na braíthre. Words do not feed the friars.” He pulled her back beneath the rumpled covers, until she was stretched out beside him. His fingers danced over her ribcage to stroke and fondle her breast. Dermot scraped a light circle around her aureole with his fingernail, smiling at her sudden intake of breath. Palming her soft mound of flesh, he rotated his hand slowly, then faster, then slowly again. Her nipple hardened against his palm.
