“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not explaining it well, I fear. This climax, you can produce it on your own, outside of intercourse. You don’t need a partner for it. That’s what I was doing last night.”
“Oh,” Harriet said, looking down at her lap. Alexander waited, knowing there was more. She was far too curious for the discussion to end there. “So why wear tight breeches then? Or race curricles? Or … enjoy … women at all? If men can do that themselves?”
“It’s far, far more pleasurable with someone else, I promise you,” Alexander responded, knowing he was tiptoeing into quite dangerous territory, but unable to stop himself. It wasn’t the ale or the dancing or even the damned shift, but the feeling he had that the two of them were entirely removed from the rest of the world in that tiny, cold room, which compelled him to add, “It’s not just men who can do so themselves.”
He willed Harriet to ask the next question, even as he knew he should end this conversation. For all his rakehell ways, he knew he should not be discussing frigging habits with an innocent. And yet. He could tell she wanted to know. Harrietalwayswanted to know things. And he wanted to be the one to teach her.
“Women can toss themselves off, then?”
He laughed, a full laugh. Harriet startled, which made him feel like the worst sort of person. He unthinkingly reached over and placed a hand on her arm to stay her.
“They can. It’s only, I’m not certain it’s called ‘tossing off’ for a woman.” Harriet looked down at her arm where his hand lay and then up at him. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see her gray eyes widen with desire. Desire to learn a vocabulary word, yes, but desire all the same.
“What is it, then?”
He brought his arm back to his lap, which felt safer. Nothing in all his years had prepared him for this interaction.
“I’m not certain I know the phrase for women.”
“You don’t know?” She sounded affronted.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Bring oneself off? That may apply to either sex. Self-pollute surely does, although that seems to carry a negative connotation I shouldn’t like to associate with the act. I’ll admit, I’m not very studied in this.”
“I am appalled to hear that you don’t know about female pleasure. I felt certain, based on your reputation, that it was your specialty.”
Alexander turned his entire body to face her, insulted. “I will not have you discredit me. I simply don’t know thewordsa lady might use for touching herself. I assure you, I knowplentyabout female pleasure. Indeed, I have forgotten more about bringing a lady to her peak than many men have ever learned.” He could feel himself breathing more heavily and was glad to see that she was too. Dancingwasn’t to blame this time. She was silent for a moment before she parted her lips, darting her tongue out to wet them before she began.
“So, youdoknow how it’s done?”
“Of course I know how intercourse is done. I’d hardly be worthy of my title as London’s Most Notorious Rake if I didn’t, would I?”
Harriet held his gaze for a moment, and he couldn’t look away. From the edge of his vision, he saw her throat swallow thickly. She was gathering her nerves. He was doomed.
“I meant touching myself,” she corrected, quietly.
Chapter Twelve
AS SOON AS THE WORDS LEFT HER MOUTH,HARRIET REGRETTED THEM.Her entire body felt prickly and hot, her skin too small. Her chemise, which alreadywastoo small, felt even tighter. Her father had always been disappointed with her curiosity, had told her it wouldn’t serve her, that it would get her in trouble. He’d been right, apparently.
Compared to her heat, Alexander seemed frozen in place—likely from shame. No doubt ladies were not meant to ask such things. Harriet flinched, a remnant of living so long with her father. She scrambled to apologize, to smooth things over.
“I beg your pardon! I shouldn’t have—I’m—Oh, I’m—” She buried her face in her hands. It was useless.
Alexander reached out to lower her arms, and Harriet realized just how wrong she’d been.
He wasn’t cold at all.
“Harriet,” he whispered, his voice low and deep.
How many levels of blushing were possible? Harriet felt sure she’d experienced every single one of them. She kept her eyes trained on the coverlet; if she met his gaze, the inn would ignite.
“Harriet,” he repeated, his thumb stroking up her arm seductively. No wonder the man didn’t care about words as she did. If he could achieve this much with his hands, he had no need for a mouth.
His touch traveled up to her shoulder, then he traced his fingers across her collarbone. A bone she’d never felt anything for previously. If you’d asked yesterday, Harriet would have been virtually certain seduction shouldn’t have anything to do with clavicles.
“Is this it?” Harriet asked, her eyes meeting his, the flammability of the inn be damned. She heard herself practically panting. It would have been quite embarrassing if she weren’t so desperate. She had no capacity for shame; she needed more. More … something. “Is this how women touch themselves?”
