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She dipped her head to hide her smile at the words. “He was not my lover,” she said, finally. “I am not the kind of woman who attracts lovers.”
It was the truth, and also a shameless hunt for a compliment. She would be well served if he agreed with her.
Please don’t agree.
“As I have spent the better part of the last two years imagining all the things I would like to do to you, I must disagree. Vehemently.”
She gasped. “You have?”
“In great detail. So much so, that I’m eager to resume my position as your current lover, so can we get on with this?”
It was difficult to think of anything but his frank confession. “What sorts of details?”
“Shave me, and I will show you.”
She swallowed. “I—”
“Unless you’re through with me?” he prodded.
“No—” she said. “No.”
He exhaled, harsher than normal, as though he’d been waiting for just that answer. “Excellent. Then do you mind hurrying up? Because I have plans to get back to kissing you.”
He did not have to ask her twice. She set the mirror aside and took the razor from his hand, standing to consider the proper angle for her task.
“You should sit,” he said, as though he read her mind, the words a bit rough. “It will give you better access.”
She looked to his lap, his trousers tight across his thighs. And across other things... Realization coursed through her, chased by desire. He wanted her. “On you?”
A delicious hesitation. Then, on a low rumble, “If you like.”
She shouldn’t. This wasn’t a game. This was a sharp blade to the man’s throat, and it wasn’t as though she were a trained barber. But the temptation to sit in his lap, to feel the hard press of his muscles against her... It was too great. She took her seat, one of his hands coming to her hip to hold her steady, sending heat sizzling through her.
“Is this... Are you comfortable?”
He was in no way comfortable. She could feel him, rigid against her—his thighs, his chest, his... other bits. She resisted the temptation to explore just how rigid she’d made him when he said, tight and clipped, “Perfectly.”
She cut him a disbelieving look, but focused on thetask at hand, setting the razor to his cheek and carefully pulling it along his skin.
She released a breath when she reached the line of his jaw and rinsed the blade in the basin nearby.
He raised a brow. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” she lied.
“You seem it.”
“If I am, it is because you are making me nervous,” she said, taking another line of beard.
“That’s interesting, as I am the one with the blade to his throat.”
“That’s why I’m nervous,” she replied, rinsing the blade once more. “No talking, please. As you know, I don’t care for dead dukes.”
“Until me, I’m not sure you cared for living ones, either.”
Another stroke. “Who says I care for living ones now?”
He caught the hand with the razor in it, meeting her gaze firmly. “You care for me.”
