Page 85

“Lift your skirts.” He practically hissed.

She flushed deep, a blush that vined up in tiny tendrils from her heart into her cheeks, as well as branching down in thicker cordons to her core.

Demanding Simon was new.

Or not.

In his own, quiet way, Asquith had always taken charge. Now he was turning his understated proficiency toward her pleasure. Every fiber of her being yearned for that pleasure.

She didn’t even mind if he ordered her about. In bed. His feverish touch against her breast had left her frenzied; she wanted him to command.

“Lenora...” His tone conveyed a touch of impatience.

She reached down and shimmied up her skirt.

“Higher,” he said.

“But—”

“I know, darling. Higher.”

The rich, resonant tenor of his voice filled the air, leaving her momentarily stunned. She wanted him to keep soothing the ache he’d inspired. She did not want to uncover her mortifying patch of hair.

“Fortitude,” he whispered.

Fortitude. How very Asquith. As if she needed to gird her loins.

In fact—her wry amusement returned—her loins were the very parts he was demanding she reveal.

Clearly, he was mad.

Then again, he’d been right about the usefulness of her breasts. And she had just removed his shirt. The least she could do was reveal a generous section of leg.

She gathered the fabric in her hands and wisped a tangle of silk and linen up her thighs.

“Ah.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “You have pink ribbons securing your stockings.”

“Yes,” she answered. Why did he look so rapt? “I didn’t think men were interested in ribbons.”

“This man is interested in ribbons.” He ran his hand along the edge of her stocking. “Pretty packages should have pretty bows. This silk feels thick and soft. Useful, perhaps,”—he lifted his gaze—“as binding material.”

His tone, if not his words, caused an involuntary, full-body clench.

Ribbons bound packages all the time. How had he made them sound obscene?

“Soft.” Though he ran the loose edge knot between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes held hers. “Exquisite.”

She glared. “Would you like to undo the bow?”

His steady gaze grew mournful. “I had better not. Not this time.”

He adjusted his angle and pressed up against her side. No mistaking the meaning of the crinkle in his falls now. A thick, long cudgel jutted into her flesh.

She’d seen that cudgel before and in a similar state.

A pulse ticked in a place she’d never felt a pulse. A place far too close to the hand he’d splayed across her thigh. Despite the cold, she steamed.

Then, he bent over her decolletage, and she forgot to think at all. His warm, wet mouth enclosed around her nipple and that reckless, wanton feeling returned.