Page 49 of Bloodgrove

“Apparently, I am one of your mistakes.”

She smiled sadly. “I want us to put all our quarrels behind us at last. I want you to accept my apology.”

Will sighed. He did not deceive himself—he had forgiven her long ago. But he enjoyed the game. His gaze wandered idly over her black-clad figure in the rain-dimmed light. Her pale skin seemed almost luminous against her hair and high-necked velvet dress.

“Come here.”

Elodie’s eyebrows shot up, and she studied him across the desk.

He waited patiently.

Perhaps she saw something of the depraved fantasies unfolding behind his calm expression, because pink rose into her cheeks. But she obeyed and slowly walked around the desk. Only then did he notice the black beads climbing her skirt from the hem like twisting vines, lending the fabric a languid weight.

Will rolled his chair back slightly to make space for her between himself and the desk. His pulse was already pounding through his veins, making the world seem a shade brighter. At the same time, everything else fell away as every fiber of his being focused on the woman before him.

The misting rain deepened into heavy October drops, beating steadily against the glass. Elodie stepped between his knees and leaned back against the desk. Her fingers closed around its edge as though she could anchor herself there—or hold herself back. Her chest rose quickly above the stiff bodice, and her lips glistened where she had licked them.

“Will,” she said, attempting to sound teasing and faintly reproachful. But her dilated pupils and the deepening flush in her cheeks betrayed her. “Whatever you are planning, you know my limits.”

“Are you telling me that because you permit everything else, or because you want me to stop?” he asked.

She meant to laugh, but the sound died, caught by the possibility. She studied him sharply, her expression not quite a smile. “What are you trying to accomplish? Do you mean to prove that I need to make mistakes? That this part of me⁠—”

“Sit on the desk and gather up your skirts.”

The playful smile vanished from his lips, and another side of him emerged, cool and deep, strong as the current of the sea. It had taken years for him to find his confidence, to stand by what he wanted, and he was tired of being driven back into the uncertainty of his youth—by Bloodgrove, by Mr. Arcos, by his own magic, and above all by Elodie.

Elodie hesitated, her lips pressed together. He watched her struggle, watched obedience and surrender clash with everything in her nature. But then she slid onto the desk, over his plans and drawings. The thin paper wrinkled and tore, but he did not care. He could redraw them. Elodie’s face, so helplessly swept up in the pull of his command, was worth the lost hours of work.

Her fingers trembled slightly with excitement as she lifted the fabric, first revealing her leather slippers, then her stockinged thighs, and finally the clasps and ribbons holding them in place, where soft, warm flesh swelled over the tops. He loved that small strip of bare thigh, spilling over like a breast above a corset. Everything inside him wanted to touch the silky skin there, but he forced himself to remain seated and explore her only with his eyes.

A woman’s legs were so different from a man’s wiry, angular thighs, with their firm skin and dense hair. Everything about Elodie was profoundly feminine, foreign and new, yet strangely familiar. He wanted to discover every way she differed, where she liked to be touched, where she twitched and giggled beneath a caress.

The cloud of fabric was too great for her to lift the skirts entirely from her thighs and reveal the most intimate part of herself.

“Spread your legs for me.” Gods, his voice was rough. Would she give him the same assessing stare she had during the examination?

Elodie licked her lips.

“Put your feet on the desk. Open wide.”

“But—” Elodie objected before she could stop herself. She bit her lip. “Sir…”

“Will.”

She obeyed. She shifted backward, drew up her legs, and set her feet along the edge, wide apart as he had ordered. To keep from falling, she braced herself behind her, making the pose seem even more like an offering.

A sacrificial lamb on the altar.

The lace of her petticoat and the embroidered toplayer, its beads clicking softly against the wood, now fell fully away. Her airy silk panties tried to conceal her, but the loose material slipped aside, giving Will a glimpse of dark curls and pink skin.

For several moments, which must have felt like an eternity to Elodie, he remained seated and savored the sight of her, that promise where the panties had darkened and betrayed her like a traitor.

Will was no longer the boy who chased every scrap of affection, who could bring himself to release with a few hurried, overpracticed strokes and nearly spill into his trousers at the first thought of sex. Now he preferred slow games, where anticipation, control, restraint, and denial fed desire until it descended upon him like a beast.

But rarely had it been as tempting as this, with Elodie.

Never had he ached for someone so long that denying himself became torture.