He ran his thumbs over her arch at all angles for several blissful minutes, then tilted her toes out to press along the side of her foot, curling up around her ankle bone. Next, he did something pinchy to where her heel narrowed to her ankle that made her eyes roll up in her head.
Another involuntary moan leaked out, and she sighed. Her whole body prickled with awareness and sensation. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her fingers itched to touch skin—hers or his. They weren’t particular. Thankfully, her stays hid the pointed tips of her swollen breasts. She had to resist the desireto squirm in her seat again to seek friction for her swollen nub against the chair.
He switched feet, placing her foot down without her slipper and murmuring something about the oil ruining it. Gently lifting her other leg, he removed her slipper and slid his fingers up to unfasten and unroll her other stocking.
This time the tingling went right to her core, and she did squirm once. When he glanced up, she stilled and willed herself to relax against the chairback again.
He placed her foot in his lap.
When he poured more oil and paused to admire her other foot, she chewed on the inside of her cheek to avoid lifting her skirts and telling him exactly where and how to rub her to better effect.
Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes. A twitch against the sole of her foot had them flying open. His thumb was against her, but she swore she’d felt fabric.
If that was his cock, she might lose all control, something that had never happened. Lud, he was vexing. And enticing. Sighing, she relaxed into the unusual delight of being the center of someone’s attention, rather than the other way around. The movements of his hands sent heat and desire rolling over her like waves, advancing and receding on the shore of her quim.
As Luke loweredher second foot to the floor, Belle blinked. Unable to hold his gaze, she glanced away, hoping her cheeks did not look as warm as they felt.
When he did not rise immediately, she pushed the chair back a few inches and swept a hand down to grab her slippers with her stockings tucked in them. Standing, she controlled her pantingenough to say, “The women were right. You are quite the expert in that. An unexpected pleas-skill. You have exonerated yourself; your apology is accepted. Now I find myself quite fatigued. Please go change into whatever you desire to sleep in and meet me in my room.”
“I am still to sleep on the floor, then?”
“Yes. I have absolved you, but I think the lure of the spirits remains strong enough that a few more nights of oversight are warranted.”
He bowed his head and turned for the stairs.
She remained in the room, unable to decide if she should go change for bed or stay here and relieve her tension by taking herself over the edge of ecstasy. It would only take a few minutes, given how over-stimulated she was from that glorious foot rub.
Deciding it was best to change without him present, even with a screen to step behind, she raced up and shucked her clothing. Reaching for the slinky crimson nightrail, she sighed at its glide over her sensitized flesh. She could hardly wait to chain him in his pallet and slip beneath the covers. Once he was asleep, she’d finish this.
Damn Bessie for putting her in this hostess role, making it impossible to use him for her recreation then never see him again. This was the first time she’d considered any liaison, even a night of intimacy, with a man outside of a negotiated contract in... ever. She wasn’t certain of the rules, but she couldn’t simply kick him out on the morrow if he was terrible in bed. Bessie would terminate their arrangement, in which case she might never have a family.
A knock came.
“You may enter.”
He stepped in and she gripped the bedpost for support. He’d removed his shirt.
“Don’t you have a nightshirt of some kind?”
“I sleep in my smallclothes when I’m sober enough to remove my shirt and trousers.” His tone was wry.
“Ah. Right, then. ’Tis not like I haven’t seen a bare chest or four,” she told herself as much as him. But damnation, she did not need to see this one when she was already in a state.
He stepped to the pallet and laid on it, extending his wrist.
“Did you want to remove your trousers then?”
He raised his brows. “If you do not mind. I have a limited amount of clothing here.”
She tossed the blanket over him, declining to acknowledge the long rigid lump under his trousers that would make sleep difficult, with or without multiple layers of clothing. The foot rub had affected him as well, yet here he was, respecting her rules.
After his trousers appeared from under the bedding and were tossed aside, she buckled the cuff around his wrist, reminding him, “I am a light sleeper, so whilst I know you can unfasten the binding with your other hand, I expect you not to wake me with roaming tonight.”
Finally, she slid into bed and listened for his breathing to change into sleep.
A half hour passed. She heard thumps against the floor and the swish of covers as he tried various positions. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the slick of his oil-covered hands, saw the club outlined by his trousers, recalled the line of fur down his stomach. Gulping, she waited, wishing she could act on the evidence of both of their desires. But he’d been so respectful, from the blanket to keeping his trousers on, she refused to reward that by pushing intimacy on a captive audience who had had little say in being here. Gah, morals were frustrating.
She lay rigid, not daring to touch her damp swollen folds even once for fear of being unable to stop when he was not yet asleep.
