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Chapter Twenty
Clara hadn’t meant to tease, let alone torture; she was in uncharted territory, expressing herself this way. She’d thought herself bold by coming to his home that first night; now she tested the boundaries of her own daring.
James was aroused and wanted to please her, but he didn’t quite know exactly whatshewanted. Evidently, that bothered him—greatly.
She laid her fingertips gently over his eyelids, prompting their closure. She admired his long, dark lashes against his cheek, though he wasn’t in repose, nor in any state near it.
His nostrils flared; his entire body was tight, not just the swelling arousal in his trousers.
“Remember the first time you put your mouth on me? Here?” Clara guided his palm to the juncture of her thighs.
The air left his body.
“Yes?” she queried when he couldn’t answer with words.
He nodded, cupping her through her gown. His muscles tensed again, as if he was going to take action.
She stayed him quietly. “No, no, this is enough for now.”
She laid her head against his shoulder, whispering like a siren into his ear. “I remember, too. You told me you were going to do it, but you didn’t stop touching me with your fingers until I was mad with wanting. Still, I was afraid.”
James cocked his head as if in surprise, his eyes still dutifully closed.
“My body was so slick. You had me flowing. And when you finally lowered your head to me, and placed my legs on your shoulders,” her voice wobbled, “I thought you might not like how wet I was.”
She turned her head into his shoulder to hide her face. His hands stroked her back.
“I could feel your breath on me,” she continued. “You spread me with your fingers, and I heard it. I waited for you to hesitate, to be disgusted. But the sound you made in your throat…even my doubts couldn’t disguise your hunger for me.”
James made a wolfish sound, and taking possession of her chignon, claimed her lips. Her back pressed into the side of the piano, and she bent like a branch in Mr. Chopin’s storm. She pressed her hands against him when the wood bit into her.
He took a step back, palms up, breathing heavily.
“Mr. Robertson, your lips are wet,” she whispered. Automatically, he lifted a hand to feel, even as his lips curved at her formality. “Your mouth was shiny when you finally lifted it from me then, too.”
James swallowed, but his voice was still gravelly when he spoke. “Will you come upstairs with me?”
“May I show you how I want it?” There was an illustration in one of her books that she wished to try.
“Aye.” He took her hand. “Show me.”
Once in his chamber, they took turns undressing themselves and each other as expediently as possible.
James was still in his drawers when she dragged a pillow to the middle of the huge bed.
“Head on the pillow,” she commanded.
When he reached to touch her instead, she batted his hands away and pointed to the bed.
He positioned himself as she asked—on his back with his head on the pillow—but he couldn’t stay reclined. He rose on his elbows to watch her, no longer looking impatient as she climbed up onto the bed to straddle him.
He watched her mink-covered cleft slide home over his drawers-encased cock. He fell back against the pillow, groaning, and cupped her breasts while she moved herself against him softly.
“I don’t want you on your knees,” said Clara.
Holding his gaze, she moved her body up the bed until she straddled his face. “It’s I who will be on my knees while you worship me,” she explained with a small smile.
His mouth parted, and he nodded. He placed a thumb on each side of her labia and opened her slowly to the air.
