He stilled as she perched upon the bench.
“I want your hands,” she said, her breath shakier now, “beneath my skirts.”
It was a ridiculous request, and she wondered whether he might refuse. Surely, as a gentleman, he would. To kiss her wasone thing, but to place his hands on her intimately was quite another. One part of her hoped he would blush and stammer, and the other part of her hoped he might do exactly as she asked.
There was a beat of silence before Mr Deverell knelt without a word. His coat fell in soft folds around him and his hands reached forwards to lift her skirts up around her thighs.
He was obeying, and she didn’t mind it at all. The cold air licked up her stockings. He paused at the edge of her garter, his hands warm against her skin. She closed her eyes, just for a second, and let herself feel the burn of it.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice even lower. “Where. And I will oblige.”
She opened her eyes. This was truly happening, and he was not the least bit nervous or flustered.
Well… there was nothing for it but to continue. “There,” she breathed. “Between.”
When he touched her through the thin linen of her drawers, she bit back an “oh.”
He looked up at her from beneath dark lashes. “Like this?”
She nodded, quickly and wordlessly.
He remained still. “I require instruction, Miss Tolliver. It isyourforfeit, after all.”
Oh, bother. She bit her lip—it wasshewho was losing her composure.
“I want—” she began and faltered. No—she was in control of this encounter, and she would ask for precisely what she desired. “I want you to touch me properly.”
“Properly? What do you mean by that?”
Her cheeks flamed. “Skin to skin.”
At that, he made a sound—a low rumble of approval—and parted the linen at the seam, his fingers slipping easily between the folds of the garment. Still, he did not touch where she wanted, but instead stroked her thigh, along the inside curvewhere the skin was softest. He used the back of his knuckle first, tracing the line where her stocking ended, and then higher, where there was no protection from his touch at all.
Lottie squirmed, and her hands tightened on the bench.
“Is this what you meant?” he asked, voice rough and far too pleased with himself. “Properly?”
“Not precisely,” she managed.
His touch drifted higher, circling her inner thigh, brushing maddeningly close to where she ached for him, but always veering off. It was untenable.
“Jasper.”
He paused at the use of his first name, looking up at her under his dark lashes, and she could not help but see how ravenous his eyes were. She was not the only one desiring. “Yes, Charlotte?” he breathed through a smile.
His hand was languid, stroking in slow arcs at her thigh. She let out a strangled sound as his thumb brushed the outer edge of her sex, tracing the lips lightly, so lightly, but still not touching her where she wanted.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, “but I want to be sure I get it just right. Shall I stop?”
“No.” Her voice came out hoarse and more desperate than intended. “Do not stop.”
She gasped as his fingers glided through the slick heat of her. He still did not touch where she needed him most. He circled it, passed over it, and toyed with her as though it were a game.
“Please,” she whispered.
He glanced up. “Please what?”
“You know what, you horrid man.”
