by Lavinia Kent
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he commanded gently. “If you are unsure how to proceed, then perhaps it is my turn to seduce my wife.”
Robert watched Kathryn’s eyes dilate and her breath slow. He could almost see her thoughts. She was tempted, very tempted, but something held her back. He rubbed his thumbs across the bare skin of her shoulders, her skin like velvet beneath his touch.
Her breath held for a moment, and then her chest filled, drawing his gaze to the deep cleft between her breasts. He longed to bury his face there, to pull her scent in, to . . .
She was not ready for that, she was pliant to his touch, but still unsure, her eyes stared up at him, questioning.
“We can go as slowly as you want. Anything you tell me I will listen to,” he said, stroking with his thumbs again.
“I—I am not sure. I don’t know . . .”
“Then why don’t we take it even slower? If you sit again, this time I will pour you a glass of port, warm it between my hands, and then serve you gentle sips. A single drink cannot be bad, can it?”
“As long as it truly is only one. I do not want a repeat of last night. It took all morning for me to feel myself. I did not drink any wine at dinner.” She pulled slightly away and moved back toward her chair. He kept one hand on her shoulder and followed.
Sitting, she spread her skirts about her.
“Are you trying to protect yourself from me?” he asked.
“What?”
“You’ve spread your skirts so far there’s no room for me—unless I stand behind.”
“Oh, I can—”
“No, it is fine. I will be comfortable here. I can give you sips over your shoulder.” Perhaps it was best if she could not see his face, could not see the desire and longing, the fight for control.
He bent over her, reaching for the decanter of port, trying to keep his eyes from her breasts. He needed control, needed it now. Pouring a half glass, he started to bring it to her lips, and then paused. Memories of her earlier actions came to him.
He dipped a finger in the rich, dark liquid, the sweet, fruity smell rising to his nostrils. “We should be very careful that you don’t drink too much. A second night of imbibing can be far worse than the first. We’ll start with just a taste.”
He brought his hand around her head, rubbing his finger against the fullness of her lips, but did not seek entry. “Taste,” he whispered.
He heard her intake of breath, imagined her tongue reaching out to lick her lips.
He repeated the gesture, but hesitated so that her tongue caressed his finger.
The third time, he ran the wine against the crease of her mouth, waiting for her lips to part.
He pulled back as they did, barely brushing the moist skin of her inner lip.
Her shoulders quivered against him, he could feel her want beginning to grow.
He dipped again, smeared her lips again—not allowing her mouth to capture his finger.
And again.
“May I have a taste?” he asked.
“Of course.” Her voice was not quite steady.
He bent forward, pulling slightly back on her shoulders with one hand. She moved with ease, her body lax beneath his touch. He brushed the rich port across her mouth, leaned forward—and tasted it straight from her lips.
He felt the first moment of her shock, the sudden intake of her breath, and then she relaxed, her mouth soft and pliant beneath his. He held his lips still for a moment, just pressing mouths together, and then slowly slipped his tongue out, licking the last drops of port from her mouth.
Waiting for the beginning of her response, the slight pucker, the parting of lips, he pulled back, stopping inches away, staring down at her closed eyes until they slowly drifted open, her pupils unfocused.
Her gaze sharpened suddenly, seeing him. He smiled and leaned back, pausing to lay a soft kiss on her bare shoulder.
He took a moment to pull several deep breaths into his lungs. Her innocent response would be his undoing. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the building pressure.
Her head started to turn back, toward him, her eyes almost level with . . . He quickly dipped his finger in the port again and brought it forward, rubbing, stroking, moving over her lips.
“Open your mouth,” he whispered in her delicate ear, his eyes drawn to its perfect arch and curve.
He dipped his finger again and this time slipped it between her parted lips, stroking the soft inner curve of her cheek. Her lips tightened about him, drawing his finger deeper. He withdrew slightly, then slipped forward again, the intimacy of the movement causing his body to clench as his mind filled with images.
God, he wanted her, wanted her now. It took every inch of will he had not to release the beast, not to pull her into his arms, to carry her to the bed, to push up her skirts, to—
Control. Control. Keep it slow.
She mewed softly, a low sound of need, her face once again turning, seeking.
Resting his hands lightly on her shoulders, he began to knead, to massage, to ease every remaining kink and bit of tightness from her. Obediently her head fell back, the crown resting against his belly just above the waist of his pants.
He swallowed, but kept his fingers moving, stroking, tantalizing.
“I am getting warm.” Her voice was gentle and breathy.
“Only just getting?”
“I think . . . She hesitated. “I think that perhaps I should loosen my dress. It is very snug. I would feel much cooler if it were not so tight. I feel it pressing against me, the braid so binding against my . . . my breasts.”
He could feel what the words cost her, how difficult they were to say. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” It came out as a purr.
He kept kneading for another moment and then let his hands drift down her shoulders and back to the top of her ties. He worked quickly at the knot and lacings, watching as the crimson velvet slowly slipped lower, revealing the top of her chemise and corset.
“That feels wonderful.” Now it was a small moan that escaped her lips.
“I am glad.” Laces untied, he slipped his hands back up her shoulders, stopping for a bit more massage, before slowly trailing them forward, across her collarbones. He paused at the top of her chemise, running a finger back and forth under the very edge of the lace, giving her time to protest—she did not.
He lightly ran his palms over the full curve of her breasts, covered now only by fine cloth, feeling her peaked nipples against his skin. Forcing himself not to tarry too long, he pushed the gown further down until only thin linen covered her above her corset, the dusky peaks visible through the translucent fabric. “Should I unlace your corset? You might breath easier. You seem a trifle breathless.”
“Please.” Her eyes were shut, the dark lashes a shadow against her pale skin, her head still resting against his stomach.
He cupped her breast again, squeezed once, firmly but not hard, then ran his hands back across her arms until he reached the remaining laces of her corset. It was the work of only a moment to unfasten them, to pull the straps of the corset down, to free her completely, corset and gown pooled about her waist.
His own breathing was difficult now. For the first time he was able to look upon her breasts and let his eyes feast. They were still partially veiled, but the glow of the fire lit them in a way that left his mouth dry.
He placed his hands back on her shoulders, forcing them to stillness, letting her grow used to her near nakedness. She rubbed her head back and forth across his belly. It was his turn to moan.
Her eyes opened and stared up at him, almost black with desire.
She caught his gaze and her own followed his down until she stared at her own breasts. Her hands rose and covered them, but then slid lower drawing the thin fabric tight. Her glance returned to his and for a moment he could see a deep womanly knowledge in them. She moved her head against him.
Again, rugged sounds were drawn from his lips.
&n
bsp; “Do you like them?” Her question was real, the uncertainty there in her gaze.
“If you moved the crown of your head an inch lower, you would not have to ask.”
And then she did. He was not sure what sensation she felt, but for him it was a brush with heaven.
“Should I stand now?” Again she sounded unsure.
“If it would please you.” Please her. He must remember this was all about pleasing her, seducing her. His own needs must come second. In truth, he wanted her to stay where she was, her head pressed firmly against him, his arousal cushioned in the soft spill of her curls.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she pulled away from him, and half turning in the chair she rose to her feet, slightly unsteady.
And then she was standing, her gown falling to her feet, and he could not regret her movement. He’d always known she was beautiful, but now, now with the warmth of the fire glowing upon her, the thin linen showing as much as it hid, she was a goddess come to earth. He wanted to fall on his knees and worship, to press his face against the soft curve of her belly, to . . .
“Is this right? I don’t really know what to do,” Kathryn said, playing with a fold in the linen.
“Yes, it’s exactly right,” he replied, his voice gruff. “If it makes you happy. It’s only right if it makes you happy.”
Chapter Ten
If it made her happy? Kathryn considered the phrase. She’d never really considered whether things made her happy—and certainly not this.
And it did make her happy. Even after all the events of the day and evening, as she watched Robert she felt a bubble of joy begin to grow within her—and that was not even considering the other feelings that were slowly overtaking her.
Linnette—oh, she wasn’t going to think of her now—had mentioned a tingle and there was definitely a tingle, although it was rapidly growing into a true ache—an ache that sought release.
“I do like the warmth of the fire,” she answered, after a moment, looking down at her hands, suddenly shy beneath the intensity of his gaze. Who had known a man’s desire could feel so powerful?
“Is that all you like?” Robert took a step forward.
What did she say to that? Her fingers pleated the fabric with more vigor. “I don’t know.”
He took another half-step, and then paused, considering her words. “Let me ask differently—is there anything you don’t like? Or anything else you want?”
“There is nothing I don’t like, but as for the rest, I don’t know what else I want. What else I should want.”
Her gaze lifted as high as his chest. She watched as it rose and fell, feeling a desire to rest her hand against it, to feel the movement, to feel his warmth. Did she dare?
Her arm rose. She inched forward.
“Go ahead. Do what you wish,” he said, sensing her hesitation.
Pressing her hand against him, she felt the hard planes of his chest. She wasn’t sure she’d ever touched him before. Yes, their bodies had pressed together, their hands had touched, she’d held his arm, but never before had she touched him for no other reason than that she wanted to, that she needed to. The fine weave of his shirt was soft beneath her finger, his heartbeat fast, but steady. She rubbed her fingers, reveling in her freedom. It was such a small thing, but it melted something within that she had not even known was frozen.
“Can I—can I undo a button, feel your skin?” She wondered at her own bravery as she asked.
“You can open as many as you want. Do you want to remove my cravat?”
She stared up at the intricate knot. “Would you?”
It was off in a matter of seconds. His neck was beautiful. She’d never even noticed before and now she could not move her eyes away. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. She reached up and stroked it, her hand brushing the stubble of his chin.
His body stiffened beneath her touch, each muscle drawing tight.
She stopped moving. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, if anything it is too right.”
Too right? She was doing things too right. She gazed into his dark eyes and felt the truth of his words, saw the effect she was having on him. “Did you want another taste of port?”
Without waiting for his answer she turned and picked up the glass, dipping her own finger into it. She started to reach for his lips, but then brought her hand to her own mouth, following his past gesture. She wet her lips and waited.
His gaze dropped to her lips, and then back to her eyes. He held there for a moment and the breath left her body as his gaze dropped again.
His tongue darted out and dampened his own lips before he slowly leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers, his lips firm.
His tongue darted out again, tracing the bow of her lips. “So sweet,” he murmured, his mouth never leaving hers.
She felt herself soften against him, her mouth as pliant as beeswax on a July day.
When his tongue moved between her lips seeking entrance she opened, her mind filled with possibilities. He swept the inside of her mouth, her own tongue moving to meet his, to dance with his. She had never known there could be such delight in a kiss.
For a moment she let herself lose all thought, nothing existed except darting tongues and soft moist cheeks. Her lips pressed against his harder, and harder. This was all she had wanted, all she had imagined—only now she wanted more.
When his arms came around her, pressing her hips into his thighs, her belly against his hardness, she could only moan in pleasure. She rubbed herself back and forth seeking something, she did not know what, but something—something that grew and ached and demanded.
His hands cupped her behind, squeezing, rubbing, lifting.
Her feet were off the ground, her legs rising to wrap about him. She pushed closer, pressed closer, seeking more.
The kiss was enveloping now, wet and wild and devouring.
Her hands slipped through the open neck of his shirt, gliding over the silk of his shoulders, feeling the chorded muscles beneath.
Her back was against the wall now, although she was not sure when they had moved. The coolness of the plaster contrasted with the heat of his chest, of his—her mind tried to find a word that did not sound silly—none of the terms her mother had used had anything to do with what was pressed against her, rubbing her, finding some spot between her legs that caught fire, burning through her belly—demanding, always demanding more. She pushed against him further, grinding against him, trying to find that which remained just beyond her grasp.
And then she was standing, cold and alone.
She looked at him, gasping, wanting, wondering what she had done wrong, what had caused the exile from the wonder of his heat, of his arms.
He was gasping also, his breath coming in quick, jerking inhales. His brow was damp with sweat, his eyes glazed. “Give me a moment, just a moment.”
Her glance dropped to the floor as again uncertainty filled her—and then she lifted her eyes. There was no winning if she did not ask. “Why did you stop? I did not want you to stop.”
God, her innocent question almost sent him over the edge, an edge he was barely clinging to. It had been all he could do not to push up her chemise, to open the fall of his trousers, to take her against the wall with no thought for her near innocence, hell, with no thought at all. His body still ached for it—and his mind also. The thought of her moving beneath him, moving with an urgency and skill he had never even dreamed of from his demur wife was almost too much.
He pulled a huge breath into his lungs, concentrating on nothing but the burn, the need to release the air—and still he held it, forcing his mind and body to compliance—and then he exhaled, long and slow. “I could not take any more, bear anymore. If I had not set you away then, I would have taken you hard and fast and with no thought but my own pleasure.”
“I would not have minded.” Her color rose, but she continued to speak, her gaze steady. “I liked what you were doing. It made me burn here and—and here
.” She brushed her hand first over her breasts and then lower, across the soft dark curls he could see beneath her shift.
He closed his eyes, fought the urge to do just what her words suggested. “But you should mind—at least for now. There is a place for mindless passion—quite a wonderful place—but this is not it. This night is for gentle seduction.”
“And if I do not want gentle? If I want hard and fast?”
She was trying to kill him. There was no question about it. His heart would burst from his chest in another moment. “Then I am afraid you will have to live with what I choose to do. Tonight I want to show you all that can be. I will not risk another mistake.”
“And if I insist?” She stepped toward him, her hips swaying in unmistakable invitation—and—and—no, she wouldn’t—yes, she had. The chemise fell to the floor in a pool of white, leaving her bare to his gaze.
How could his greatest dream be such torture? He stared and stared, committing each inch of her to memory, uptilted, peach-tipped breasts—slim waist—slender, yet curved hips—that dark thatch of curls—slight moisture marking her firm thighs. His hands curved into fists with the effort not to reach out and touch—no, not touch, grab, and devour. He could taste her breast upon his tongue, feel the dampness between her legs upon his fingers.
No, the beast must be controlled.
And then she moved again, her legs parting as she walked—there was no hope for him.
He grabbed her shoulders, holding her back. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice brusque and hoarse.
She tried to push forward, her hands reaching out to stroke his chest. Her fingers circled a nipple and then moved lower . . .
“Do you trust me?” He moved beyond her grasp, glad of his long arms.
Her eyes lifted to his, her lower lip pouting. “Of course—now let me closer.”
In one move he swung her into his arms, grabbing the cravat that lay over the back of the chair. He carried her to the bed and tossed her down so that she lay sprawled in the center. “Do you trust me?” He felt compelled to ask it one last time.