The lord sits bolt upright, swiveling his body to face me. His expression is one of alarm.
“You need a cup of tea,” he says with the kind of urgency only a British person could muster.
“It’s fine. I have water at my desk,” I tell him, but it’s too late. He’s on his feet, headed out of the room at a brisk pace.
Several minutes later, I’m alerted to his imminent return by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Evidently, he has Mrs. Thompson in tow because I can hear her chattering in the hallway. “I can take that for you, my lord,” she tuts. “There’s no need for you to—”
“That will be all, thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” he says firmly before making his reappearance in the library.
The sight of him carrying a tea tray is an odd one. It’s not something I’ve seen him do before, so I now understand Mrs. Thompson’s consternation. He approaches and carefully sets the tray down on the side table next to me. A little milk spills from the jug as he does it.
I pretend not to notice, and so does he.
When the tea has steeped, he pours two cups. He adds a dash of milk to his, and a squeeze of lemon and a healthy spoonful of honey to mine.
He picks up my cup, holding the saucer in both hands, and offers it to me. For some inexplicable reason, my mind reads the gesture as insanely erotic.
“For your throat,” he says softly.
As I sip my tea, he tells me all about what a wonderful reader I am. “You are so talented, little mouse. Your pacingand expressions are perfect, and your voice has a lovely musical quality.” I smile and nod mutely, frantically trying to wrestle the praise kink that’s raising its head back into the box I keep it in. “When I closed my eyes while you were reading, I felt like I was flying.”
“Mm, flying,” I say, feeling a little hollowed out and a lot hot under the collar.
His expression is earnest, so sweet and sincere that I find it hard to maintain eye contact. “This is the best afternoon I’ve had in years, Jensen. Thank you.”
“Please.” I gesture liberally in his direction. “Don’t mention it.”
His eyes narrow, changing from sweet to mischievous. “How on Earth can I ever repay you?”
His chin tilts forward slightly as he considers me. I know now that he can read my eyes like a book. I know what he can see in them, and though it does embarrass me quite a bit, I don’t look away.
“Oh.” His brows rise and his lips morph into his version of a very proper shithead grin. “I see.”
He takes my teacup and saucer from me, puts them back on the tray, and then kneels at my feet. He undoes my belt like it’s everything and nothing. I lift my hips, one side at a time, to shimmy out of my pants in exactly the same way. He leaves my shoes on, so my pants and underwear bunch at my ankles, making the situation feel even more precarious than it is.
He picks up the copy ofJonathan Livingston Seagulland hands it to me. “Read, little mouse.”
I swallow hard and do as he says.
As soon as I find my rhythm, he places his hands on my bare knees. The warmth of his touch causes me to lose it again. He waits until I’ve recovered and pushes my thighs as far apart as my pants will allow. A short, loud gust of air leaves my lungs. My dick is swollen, stiffly angled toward my belly. It peers upat me optimistically as the lord takes hold of my hips and yanks me to the edge of the seat. The movement is quick and a little aggressive. It quickens my pulse and causes a little slick to trickle out of me.
I’m left half lying, half sitting on the settee with a book in my hands and my bare ass practically hanging off the seat.
I find my place on the page and start reading, acutely aware that I couldn’t recall a single thing about the plot of the book or any of the characters, even if I were questioned under torture.
“Good boy,” says a velvet voice, unleashing a tremor in me that slices through my larynx.
I give a little cough and keep reading.
My dick twitches visibly when his hand gets near it, but he doesn’t touch it. He strokes my inner thighs instead. Maddeningly lightly. Maddeningly close to where I want him to touch me.
I struggle through several pages in this way. I go back and forth, starting the same sentence over and over again and skipping others completely. It’s a mess. A hot, hot mess. Fortunately, the lord doesn’t seem to mind.
He adjusts his position, moving a little closer to me, and taps the pad of a finger firmly against my opening. It’s warm and threatening in the very best way. It causes me to drop the book onto my lap and swear viciously.
I pick the book up in a rush when I notice he’s gone still.
I understand the game. I invented it, after all. It’s a fantasy he read in my eyes—the lord only touches me when I read, when my voice rings out and a story about taking flight flits about the room.
