And he did, grasping her ankle in one hand, and the back of her slipper in the other to slide it carefully off her foot. His hands were pale against her warmer tones, his fingers long and elegant, his touch firm but gentle.
“May I remove your stocking? These work best on bare skin.”
She swallowed, knowing she should not encourage that intimacy but quite certain she wanted this massage. She nodded once.
His fingers skimmed up under her skirt. She breathed a sigh of relief that out of sheer habit from her days of entertaining, she’d continued using silk stockings with lace, and beribboned garters.
With an expert flick, her garter was unfastened.
He watched her face as he rolled down her silk stocking to tuck it into her empty slipper.
She was careful to avoid any sign of the rioting in her stomach from his gentle touches. His warm hand encircled her naked ankle, and she stifled a gasp. She hated to think what he’d do if he knew how he affected her. His gaze seemed... eager, as though he was looking for approval. She forced her spine to relax against the chair as though unaffected.
“Do you have any bath oils?” he asked.
She blinked. “Not here.”
“Where? If I may, I’d like to fetch one to reduce friction.”
Ignoring the thump of her heart at the provocative word, she arched a brow. “Try not to make a mess like you did in the kitchen, Clodpate. They are on the shelf to the left of the fireplace in my bedroom.”
He placed her foot on the footstool as he stood, grabbing a throw to drape over it for warmth, and rushed off.
Belle was left with “reduce friction” whirling around in her head, the heat of his fingers still tangible on her skin making his thoughtful covering unnecessary.
She gave herself a mental shake. No matter how long since her last lover, she was not so gauche that a simple foot massage from someone she had no interest in should arouse her.
She did not want him or the complexities he came with. Of course, he was pleasant to look at, even the prior night when hewas out of sorts. But he was an earl’s heir from what he and the widow had said. She was a posting inn on his life route. And he was immature at best, lazy at worst.
That doesn’t mean he might not be an excellent short-term lover.
No, she told herself. She always got in trouble when she listened to her inner devil. Admittedly, a man who took the time to give serving wenches foot rubs and covered her with a throw for warmth was also likely to ensure a woman’s pleasure, but no. He’d already looked to her for direction. He needed to find his own path, and complicating their brief sojourn would only delay that.
Luke returned, a bottle in hand. Setting it down on a low table next to the footstool, he lifted her foot and slid himself under it, the throw sliding up her leg to bare her to his gaze.
She recognized it as the scent she wore most days. The image of him sniffing the bottles and recognizing it made her body heat.
“You have beautiful feet, Isabella.” His fingers wandered over her toes, her arch, her ankle.
She nodded her thanks, unable to speak for the tingles gliding up from every caress. So much for her internal monologue. Her body was ignoring her and very much interested in him and where else those digits might forage.
He poured a dollop of oil into his palm and raised it to his nose, inhaling her signature rose fragrance. Isabella could have sworn he sighed. Luke rubbed his hands to warm the oil, creating a slicking sound. It roused her to images of his fingers on her most sensitive flesh creating a similar sound. Him. Over her. His cock sliding in and out her with her natural lubricant replacing the oil. She bit her lip and shifted in the chair, trying to dispel those images.
His hands went around the back of her foot, fingers up along her ankle, palms cupping her heel, and thumbs at her arch. His thumbs dug in hard and pushed up along her sole.
“Mmm...” Belle dropped her head back and moaned, louder and longer than she had in more time than she could remember. Goodness, that might indeed be better than sex, just as he had said at supper. She giggled.
He stopped and her gaze flew to his. “Are you ticklish?”
She shook her head, giggling more at his confusion.
“Women have never found these quite so funny,” he grumbled.
She snickered once more before getting herself under control. “I beg your—well, never mind that, but I now understand why some of your lady friends liked this as much as sex.”
He grinned. “Ah. I am glad it pleases you, with only one stroke.”
Belle swallowed. His word choice led her straight back into arousal. Wanting nothing more than to be stroked in whatever way he chose, she forced her expression to serenity, not wanting him to see her physical reaction. How ironic that her acting was needed to disguise excitement, when she’d only needed to pretend pleasure in the past.
