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Footmen milled about the room below stairs, ensuring everything was in place.
He allowed his hand to stroke over her hip. She didn’t even flinch away from his touch.
She looked out over the railing and said, “It’s not hard for them to bare all like that?”
“Not for some.” Speaking of hard, he’d been as hard as stone ever since she’d sat down in his lap. But she hadn’t noticed. He adjusted her bottom for a better fit.
“I should get my own chair,” she said as she started to rise. But he snaked an arm around her waist and drew her back d
own.
“I like holding you,” he said. “Stay.”
She settled back gingerly into his lap.
Two performers approached the makeshift stage. “And so it begins,” she whispered. “Do you enjoy these shows?”
“I don’t get overly amorous because of them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Do they affect you at all?”
He didn’t answer, and she let the subject drop as the man and woman on the stage began to perform. As they wove their exotic little dream before the spectators, Finn watched Claire.
“Sit back,” he coaxed gently, bringing her body back to rest against him. Her head landed on his shoulder. She fit him. From top to bottom she fit him. Why had he not realized that before? It was almost like she was made to fit into his arms.
He brought one hand around her body to lie on her stomach. She moved it quickly to her hip, her eyes fixed on the stage. The players were now naked, and the man tossed the woman onto the bed. Claire giggled.
“Liked that, did you?” he couldn’t help but ask.
“I like their easy camaraderie,” she said quietly. “You can tell they’re in love.”
“How?” He was blind to it, obviously.
“By the way they look at one another,” she breathed, totally enraptured by what the players were doing.
Finn and Claire were shrouded in complete darkness up on the landing. He almost wished it wasn’t dark, so he could see her face.
The man on the stage took his lover’s breasts in his hands and drew them to his lips. Claire’s bottom twitched against Finn’s lap. Was she getting aroused?
“This makes your heart beat faster,” he said softly in her ear, loving the lemony scent of her.
“I supposed it does,” she said, squirming a little in his arms.
“It makes my heart beat faster too.” She immediately stilled. She didn’t even breathe.
Finn began to move his fingers across her stomach in a slow motion that finally turned into a roaming caress that went from beneath her breasts to her hips. She sat still and watched what was on the stage.
“Claire,” he said quietly, when her shallow breaths were nearly more than he could take.
“Hmmm?” she hummed back absently.
“If you were alone, would you be touching yourself?” She froze again. Barely daring to breathe. “Would you?” he coaxed.
***
Would she? If she truly asked herself that question, she’d have to say yes. She’d never even thought of doing it before that night at his house in Bedfordshire. She hadn’t known what it was all about. But in the months since, she’d touched herself. Heat crept up her face at the thought. The answer to his question was—Yes, she would hike her skirts up around her waist and sink her fingers into her warm, wet folds. She’d rub herself to completion. But she wasn’t alone. Which made this damned difficult.
“Look what he’s doing on the stage,” Finn said. His eyes were riveted there, instead of on her. But when she glanced at the stage, she saw the male character, who she assumed was some debauched lord, nibbling and biting at his wife’s breasts. She didn’t know if the woman was his wife, but she liked assuming she was.
