“W-would it really?” I ask, incredulous.
He shrugs broadly, and if you ask me, way more nonchalantly than is warranted by his admission. “Well, it’s happened before. But not to worry, little mouse. That was a long time ago.”
“Okay, fine,” I say when I recover. “Do your least worst then. Go on. I’m waiting, alpha.”
“Hm, let’s see.” He screws one eye shut and looks into the middle distance. “Something innocuous that won’t start a riot butwillgive them something to talk about… Okay, got it. Give me your hand.”
Our dinner plates have been cleared, and while some people have started milling around, most are still seated, waiting for dessert. Couples at our table are chatting among themselves, casting furtive looks in our direction when they think we aren’t looking. It’s not just people at our table. People all around the room are obviously aware of us.
I offer Lord Augustus my left hand. He takes it in his and turns it over so my palm is facing up. He places it on the table in front of him, where his plate was moments ago. He leaves it there, resting on crisp white linen, just long enough for me to start feeling awkward.
Then he gets down to business.
He uses his right hand to spread my fingers, gliding his fingertips over my palm and pinning each finger onto the table. He presses down on the pads of my fingers one by one, just firmly enough to make it seem impossible for me to move them.
When it’s done, when my hand is flat on the table, fingers splayed open, he reaches over my hand and takes a sip of champagne.
It’s hard to say what he’s doing exactly that makes it so I can’t take my eyes off him, but whatever it is, the pull is magnetic.
He sets his glass down and turns his attention back to my hand. His expression is pleasant. His movement is slow and considered. At first, all it is a flick. Up, down. Left, right. A blunt nail worrying my cufflink. Then it’s a little more. A thumb and a pointer tugging gently at my cufflink before undoing it with the greatest precision I’ve ever seen.
He doesn’t look down when he does it. He looks at me. Into my eyes. Unsmiling.
I’m wearing a shirt with double French cuffs, and as my cufflink comes undone, the cuff falls open just enough to expose a sliver of the pale skin on my wrist.
Lord Augustus plays with the cuff for a while, tracing his finger along the seam, picking at the stitching before nudging the cuff open and exposing my wrist fully. He traces the fine blue-green vein that runs over my pulse point and smiles at me, but not with his eyes. He smiles like seduction. Like sex. Like bodies colliding and semen spraying.
He takes my hand in both of his and lifts it to his face. He does it as though my hand is something that’s his. Something he owns and is fond of. Something he wanted and took possession of.
I let him.
I don’t breathe as he raises it to his nose. I can’t. My heart is slamming against my rib cage, and all I can do is thank God his alpha senses are dulled because the scent of my arousal would surely be overpowering him right now.
He drags the tip of his nose from the heel of my hand to my fingertips, and then follows the same trail down again. But this time, he doesn’t stop at the heel. He travels all the way to my pulse point, where his focus remains.
“What do you smell like?” he asks, startling me.
I giggle like a fucking idiot and trill, “I don’t know. I can’t smell myself so I don’t really kno—”
“What do you think you smell like then?” he amends. “What do the people who love you say you smell like?”
“I, uh…” My throat clicks at the question. It takes me back to my childhood. To hugs after school and stories at bedtime. “My dad used to say I smelled like a ripe red apple when I was little, and…and when we were dating, Lucien used to say I smelled sweet, like caramelized sugar or something like that.”
“Caramelized sugar and apples?” He raises his chin thoughtfully. “Toffee apples? You smell like toffee apples? That’s what they say?” He drags his nose across my pulse point again, his lips dusting my skin, and shakes his head thoughtfully. “No, that’s not it.”
“Well,” I say helpfully, “when we were kids and we fought, my brother Branson would tell me I smelled like a carrot.”
“A carrot?” The lord laughs loudly, full-bodied and deep. The sound carries across the room, reverberating off mirrors and glass. “Acarrot? How very dare he!”
The lord seems to have become attached to my hand. Either that, or he’s forgotten it’s part of me, not him. He presses his thumb into my palm, finding a pressure point and tension I wasn’t aware I was carrying and releasing it.
“I might have the sense of smell of a telephone book, little mouse, but even I know you don’t smell like a carrot.”
There’s something horrifically endearing about the way he says it. Something so endearing that I find myself thinking that this might well be the most erotic moment of my life.
It’s a worry. This man is a lord, an Englishman, and my employer. Not to mention he’s a Casanova alpha, and suppressed or not, the man is built for seduction. Also, obviously, there’s the small matter of this entire thing being for show.
I need to keep my wits about me. Yes, that’s what I need to do.
