He turned his hand so now his knuckles, rougher than his fingertips, skimmed along the silken expanse. How could she be so damned soft?
How was it that she smelled of freshly cut gardenias? Surely, she hadn’t bathed after finishing her luncheon. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t need the image of her soaking in a tub filling his head. Water sluicing over those lovely breasts he’d caressed, kissed, suckled. Ah, to see them in light now. To know if those nipples were dusky or pink. To know all the various shades of her.
But that was not where this lesson needed to go. Not where it could go if he was to maintain control.
He opened his eyes, grateful to see that hers were still open so he could fall into the depths of them. It was a dangerous surrender, but he could limit the length of his captivity. He lowered his mouth to her cheek. “Are you aware you have three freckles?”
“I hate them.”
“Don’t. They have the ability to mesmerize. Did you have more when you were a child?”
“Yes.”
He would have liked to have seen her then. Probably would have teased her unmercifully and hated himself later for doing it. Young lads could be such idiots, not appreciating what would eventually lead a girl to becoming a beautiful woman.
He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She turned her head to take possession of his. He pulled back. “No. We’re not going to kiss.”
“Why not?”
Because he would be lost, would lose control. “Because seduction doesn’t require it.”
He trailed his lips along her throat, and she released a sigh mingled with a moan. His trousers became far too tight. The temptation to press up against her was strong, but he tethered it, kept his lower body away from her, even as it nearly killed him to do so.
He felt the pressure on his hand as she sought to break free of his grip, as though she needed to touch him as much as he did her. It was wrong to feel such a surge of satisfaction, but he kept her shackled, knowing her physical strength was no match for his. Yet, she was not weak. A weak woman couldn’t have brought him to his knees, and she’d held that power from the moment she’d brought him his first scotch.
With a smile, she could bring him low. With a laugh, undo him. With a glance through half-lowered eyelashes, steal his ability to think or reason. With the stroke of a finger, conquer him.
Her body writhed and strained as he licked, nipped, and grazed his teeth along her throat, as his broad hand skimmed the length of her narrow torso, over a breast, dipping at her waist, flaring at her hips. Curving over one rounded butt cheek, sliding down her thigh until he could hook her knee over his forearm, lift her leg to circle his waist, opening her to him.
If she didn’t touch him, she would die. But he seemed intent upon her death.
How was it possible for such desperation to ensue with so little of him touching so little of her?
When he’d begun trailing his fingers over her skin, she’d expected a repeat of last night with buttons undone, flesh exposed to air, his questing tongue, and his exploring hands. But he was leaving her clothing intact and in doing so was forcing her to become frantic with need.
With her leg resting at his waist, draped over his hip, she rose up on her toes, striving to create enough slack in her body that she could press an aching and needy secretive spot against him, but he held himself just beyond her reach. Her groan was nearly a whimper of despair.
While still touching her, he somehow managed to fluff out her skirt, his hand slipping beneath the fabric until his agile fingers closed around her ankle.
She was aware of him going still, like a deer caught in the sight of the hunter. Perhaps he’d not expected to encounter the bare flesh that skirts always kept hidden. Because she’d had no plans to go outdoors, she’d not bothered with stockings or shoes but wore only her slippers.
Triumph at surprising him surged through her. His mouth pressed more firmly against her throat. His breaths came in shortened gasps as though the need for a more thorough touching that embraced her had reached out to encompass him as well.
His fingers danced slowly, provocatively, along her calf, before creating small circles over the back of her knee. His tongue slowly traced the shell of her ear. “Do youwant?”
In his rasp, she heard hunger and need.
“Yes.” Her low sigh echoed the same.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
He was already touching her, but instinctually she knew he was referring to a different sort of touch, the kind for which he might make her beg.
“Yes.” The word was a stutter, a cry, a plea.
“Where?”
“Don’t make me say it.”Don’t make me beg.
