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She glanced at the large, thronelike chair she’d noticed earlier. It was time to turn imaginings into reality. “Sit,” she urged.
When he wavered she pushed against his chest. “Sit, Lord Hatherly.”
He settled into the chair looking like some medieval painting of a mountain king. All he needed were wolves at his feet and a fur strapped across his chest.
She’d twisted her hair into a simple knot. All it took was one yank to release the curls. The swift hiss of his breath informed her that he liked her hair unbound.
Kshiraniraka, or milk and water embrace... the woman is sitting on the lap of the man...
The wine coursing through her body was making her feel quite reckless.
But how was this going to work? He was so very large, and she had long skirts. She’d have to hike them to her hips.
She reached for the hem of her skirts, hefted them into the crook of one arm, and climbed onto his lap. Recalling the description in the Kama Sutra, she situated her limbs to either side of his enormous torso.
“Good God.” He looked stunned. “Dimples, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Wind your arms around me and clasp me to your chest,” she instructed.
Was this right? It felt rather ridiculous. But she bravely continued since there was no use stopping now, not until they achieved the correct position.
“I think if you...” She adjusted herself on top of him, squirming to find a comfortable seat.
He caught hold of her waist with his hands. “I wouldn’t wriggle quite so much,” he said with a grimace.
“Are you in pain? Am I hurting you?”
“You could say that.”
She was doing this all wrong. Perhaps if there were fewer impediments.
She tugged on Nick’s cravat, attempting to loosen the knot.
He emitted a strangled laugh. “You are the most surprising woman I’ve ever met.” His laughter died and his hands tightened around her waist. “And the most arousing.”
If someone painted their portrait right now, what a scandalous painting it would be.
The way his large hands wrapped nearly all the way around her waist made shivers run up and down her spine.
His hands rearranged her to suit his needs with unspoken commands.
Hips here.
Arms around my neck.
Lift your bum.
She liked being rearranged. Disarrayed.
Deranged.
“This gown’s too rough. You should wear silks,” he rasped.
“It’s a sensible gown.”
He tugged her bodice lower. “I crave the silk of your skin.” He lifted her hand and placed it in the center of her chest. “Feel what I crave.”
She’d never laid a hand directly across her breastbone before.
