He swallowed. That tight clasp, so close to the agonizing throb of his cock—
But no. He put the thought right out of his mind. Shetrustedhim. He would not seduce her—not even if, right now, she seemed to want him to.
Instead, he rubbed his thumbs across her nipples, all slippery glide now, and she groaned and pressed her knees into his thighs, twisting restlessly on the wooden stool. The legs of the stool rocked, and she gripped him harder to steady herself. The base of her thumb brushed his cock, and—
Hell. He was going to hell, or else already there.
How had he got himself to this place? He did not want to dishonor her; bloody hell, he would not use her for his own pleasure, not even if resisting killed him.
And yet he could not leave her like this—clearly aching, so obviously in need.
He set his mouth to her neck and his palm to her upper thigh.
She jerked in surprise at his touch, and then her knees—which had been digging hard into his legs—went loose. Splayed apart, all soft whimper and invitation.
His reservations—his last pitiful scruples—slid helplessly away. His hand slipped beneath her chemise, and he sucked at her skin as he stroked her inner thigh. He felt the sweet sting of her nails on his back, and he found that his grip had gone rough. Almost bruising.
So had his mouth at her throat. He wanted, as he never had in his entire life, to leave a mark where his mouth had been.
He wanted her to see it there. He wanted—God help him—for everyone to see it. To see that he’d used his teeth, and that she had tipped her head and begged for more.
But though the notion was heady—dizzying—it was not just arousal that beat hard in his body. It was yearning, too. He wanted something that would last beyond the night. He wanted this night not just in his memory but inked on her skin. He wanted to tattoo it in his heart; he did not want any part of it to slip away from him.
He knelt between her thighs. He shoved up her chemise—Jesus God, his hands felt clumsy, not quite in control. He looked up at her then—fixed his gaze on her face, flushed in the last embers of the day.
He picked up the jar again and watched her face as he trickled oil over her sex. Her eyes—always so clear, so ruthless—looked glassy, her pupils wide. She whimpered at the sensation and then, when he let himself touch her, she made a different sound, heated and frantic.
Her hips lifted, chasing the sensation, and he clamped one hand over her thigh to hold her still. He circled her clitoris, lightly, watching her face, judging her reaction. She was almost panting; her breasts trembled, her nipples slick and glistening, and he—
Oh fuck, he wanted to put his fingers inside her so badly. He wanted to feel her wet heat, the clench of her channel as she came. He wanted to drag her down off the stool, spread her legs, and lower her onto his cock.
But her toes were flexing and pointing, her thighs trembling, and he kept up his rhythm, steady and unhesitating, and she was slippery and hot and exquisite beneath his fingers, and the throaty, desperate whine at the back of her throat turned into something fractured as she came, as her hips arched up, as her thighs shook.
Only the grip of his hand kept her on the stool throughout the rough waves of her orgasm. He thought, dazedly, that he could come too, like this, between her legs, with his mouth inches from her sex.
Oh God, he thought.Ruby.
And when she opened her eyes to look down at him, he realized he’d said it aloud.
He took an unsteady breath, his eyes locked with hers. And then he came shakily to his feet. He had to get out of the tower. He had to get himself as far away from her as possible before he lost whatever thread of his sanity remained.
He had to—had to—close himself in his chamber and get his hand around his cock.
But she stopped him. Her fingers brushed his stomach, and her eyes held his. “Wait,” she whispered. “Don’t go yet.”
She set her hand to the buttons of his fall, and he froze as she tugged at the fabric, as her fingers played along the stiff length of his erection.
“Ruby,” he said hoarsely, and he did not know if he meant to beg her to stop or plead with her to go on.
She glanced down, a heavy fan of golden lashes, and then back up. “The oil,” she said. Her voice was still a little ragged. “I thought I could use the oil to touch you too.”
Jesus Christ. He thought she might never stop surprising him.
His mouth was so dry he almost couldn’t swallow. He could feel his heart beating in his cock, and he suspected she could too, even through his smallclothes.
“If you’d like that,” she added softly. Her mouth tipped up, and God, he relished the tiny seductive tilt of her mouth, her obvious awareness of her own power over him. “Would you like that?”
“So much it might kill me.”
