by Kate Bateman
Wolff’s arm snaked around her waist, and she was glad of the support. Her legs felt like water.
But neither Vasili nor the prince flicked her more than a passing glance. Instead, the prince said, “Lord Mowbray? It’s a pleasure to see you again. May I introduce a colleague of mine, Count Petrov? We worked together at Vienna, during the talks.”
Vasili gave a stiff, formal bow. “My compliments on the excellent Russian fare you have provided tonight, my lord. The blini with caviar were most excellent.” He paused and lifted one brow in what Anya supposed was meant to be a friendly tease. “One might almost think you had a Russian helping you plan it.”
Her stomach lurched, but Wolff gave an easy laugh. His hand stroked her back, kneading the tense muscles there. “No. My chef, Lagrasse, is French. But the recipes are authentic. I’m glad they meet your exacting standards.”
Vasili flicked a glance over at her, but there was no recognition in his gaze. “So, this pretty piece is yours, is she?” He chuckled, but it was more malicious than amused. “No wonder Kutzov had no luck.”
Wolff slid his finger down her arm to the sensitive skin at the bend of her elbow in an unsubtle display of ownership. “There are plenty of other women to keep your friend company,” he said pleasantly. “I’m afraid this one’s engaged for the evening.”
He bent and placed an easy kiss on the bare skin of her shoulder, and Anya almost jumped out of her skin.
“Go wait in my rooms, sweetheart. I’ll be along in a few moments.” He patted her playfully on the bottom, playing the part of eager lover to the hilt.
Anya stretched her lips in a parody of a smile and grasped the excuse to leave. Ignoring Vasili and the prince, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the very corner of Wolff’s mouth. “Hurry,” she murmured, trying to emulate Charlotte’s throaty purr. “I’ll be waiting.”
She turned and walked away on shaking legs, certain Vasili was going to call out to her, but she made it down the curved staircase and back into the private wing unchallenged. Once there, she leaned heavily on the door and closed her eyes. Dear God, that had been close. But her disguise had worked. Vasili was still none the wiser.
She made her way back to her own suite. Despite what Wolff had said, he didn’t truly expect her to go to his chamber. Did he? But what of his promise last night to make love to her if she was sober?
Anya untied her mask and let it drop onto the desk. She was sober now. Her blood was still pounding in her ears, her hands shaking in reaction to the near miss. She felt full of pent-up energy, like an overwound clock.
A masculine tread sounded outside her door. She swept it open and came face-to-face with Wolff, his fist raised to knock. He dropped his hand and studied her face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Petrov didn’t recognize me. But you’ll have to find someone else to do your spying in future. I won’t tempt fate again.”
“Agreed.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny cork-stoppered bottle. “I have a present for you.”
Anya took it. It was barely an inch long, the kind of bottle used for perfumed oils, with a thin glass tube protruding down into the clear liquid it contained. Anya sniffed it. “What is it? Perfume?”
“No. It’s a measure of Lagrasse’s tincture.”
Anya smiled in delight. “For me? Thank you! You don’t know how much safer I’ll feel, knowing I have this on my person.”
“My pleasure.” His gaze roved over her and an appreciative smile curled his lips. “Have I mentioned how fetching you look in that dress?”
“I believe so.”
“You’d look even more fetching out of it.”
Anya sucked in a breath, and his wicked gaze clashed with hers.
“You’re sober tonight, Miss Brown. Will you let me show you pleasure? I promise you I can.”
How was any woman supposed to refuse an offer like that? Anya wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and scream “yes!” but a thread of conscience nagged at her. If he knew she was highborn, he’d probably run a mile in the opposite direction. She shouldn’t bed him under false pretenses.
Yet this was the perfect opportunity to take what she wanted without fear of repercussions. Unlike every other man who’d made advances toward her, he wouldn’t be sleeping with her to improve his social standing or to trap her into marriage. There was no ulterior motive. His only goal would be to give and to experience pleasure.
She swallowed. At least she could tell him some part of the truth. “I … I once had a bad experience with a man.”
His eyebrows met in a dark scowl. “Who? When?”
“It doesn’t matter. But it made me … cautious.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He looked furious on her behalf. “Did he force himself on you?”
“No. But he would have, if my friend hadn’t come to my aid. I was made very aware of my own helplessness. I didn’t like it.”
Anya stared into his eyes and spoke from the heart. “I don’t think you men truly understand the enormous level of faith women put in you at any given moment. With very few examples, you are stronger. You can simply take what you want. So any time a woman is alone with a man, she must trust that he won’t use his superior strength to take advantage. She must hope that he has a core of honor, of decency, not to abuse his position.”
“Do you trust me?”
She didn’t hesitate. Maybe she couldn’t trust him with the full truth of her identity, but with her body, yes, she trusted him implicitly.
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I would never do anything to hurt you. We can go as fast or as slow as you like.”
Anya took a deep breath. “Then, yes. Show me pleasure. Please.”
Wolff exhaled, then sent her an amused look from beneath his brows. “We’ll get on a lot better if you actually let me into your room.”
With a start, she realized he was still standing out in the corridor. She took a step back.
He crossed the threshold and closed the door.
Chapter 24.
“Why don’t we start with the basics?” Wolff said softly, stepping close.
Anya nodded.
“I believe I’ve told you how much I like kissing. You should know I’ve made quite a study of it.” He moved closer. “Historically speaking, we have the Romans to thank for the widespread practice of it. In Roman society, when, where, and how you kissed someone was an important indicator of social status.”
His boots brushed her skirts. “They describe kissing in three forms. First, there’s the osculum, which is a friendly peck on the cheek.” He bent and pressed a chaste kiss just below the cheekbone. Her stomach quivered.
“Next, we have the basium, a more erotic kiss on the mouth.”
He matched his words with a featherlight brush on her lips. It was only a casual touch, but Anya felt it right down to her toes. She was enchanted, a prisoner of sweetness, completely focused on where he touched her.
She sucked in a shaky breath. “And the last kind?”
“The savium. The most passionate of kisses.”
He gazed hungrily at her lips and her blood thundered in anticipation. Unable to bear the suspense, she rose up on tiptoe and fused her mouth to his. His arms came around her and he answered her demand with a thrilling ardency, angling his head for better access. Desire scalded through her blood.
“Very good, Miss Brown,” he groaned after long, drugging minutes. “You’re proving to be an excellent pupil.”
His fingers grazed her bare skin above the low back of the dress, leaving goose bumps in their wake. He stared deeply into her eyes. “I give you my word that I will do nothing unless you expressly allow it. I want you to explore at your own pace. My body is yours.”
Anya expelled a shuddery breath, amazed at his generosity, his understanding. How many other men would have been so accommodating? “Thank you.”
A wicked light of mischief gleamed in his eyes. “If it will put your
mind at ease, I have a set of handcuffs in my rooms. You can restrain me, if you really want to.”
A frisson of something hot flashed through her at the very idea of him bound and helpless, at her mercy. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I want you to touch me. I want it so badly, I’ll give you complete control and take whatever scraps you’re willing to give.”
Anya could barely breathe. If he were bound, he couldn’t overpower her as Vasili had tried to do. He couldn’t force her to do anything. But he was nothing like Vasili; she trusted him without the need for such drastic measures. He was inherently decent. Honorable to the core. She wouldn’t force him, any more than he would force her. If they were going to do this—and they were going to—then it would be as equal partners.
“I don’t need you restrained,” she said. She stepped back, her stomach tight with excitement, her blood singing with nervous energy. “But I do want you to put your hands behind you until I say.”
She could hardly believe her own daring. She reminded herself she was a princess, accustomed to ordering people to do her bidding, and indicated the chair in front of the desk with an imperious flourish. “Sit down and hold the chair.”
She tensed, thinking he’d refuse, but all he said was, “Can I remove my coat first?”
“Of course.”
Her heart pounded as he tugged at his cuffs and shrugged out of his evening jacket. It took some contortion; the fit was very snug. He swiveled the chair on its front legs and turned it to face her, sat down, and reached behind him to clasp the back legs. He lifted his brows in haughty inquiry.
Now what?
Anya swallowed. She stepped forward until her knees bumped his, then pulled out the single gold-and-diamond stick pin that secured the front of his cravat. She placed it carefully on the desk, avoiding his heavy-lidded gaze, untied the white linen of his neckcloth, and unwound it from around his neck. She dropped that to the desk too.
He was left in a white shirt, black breeches, and top boots. Without the cravat to hold it together, the neck of his shirt fell open, revealing an exciting glimpse of tawny skin. Fascinated, she stroked her fingers over the jut of his collarbone and the intriguing hollow at the base of his throat. His skin was warm. Smooth. Delicious.
And hers to explore.
Gaining confidence, she let her hands skim the bunched muscles of his shoulders, pulled taut by the unnatural position of his arms. He shuddered under her touch and spread his knees. She stepped between his muscled thighs.
“Take off my shirt,” he commanded hoarsely. “Touch me.”
With hands that were not quite steady, she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his breeches, avoiding the prominent bulge clearly visible beneath. “You may release the chair,” she breathed. “For a moment only.”
He lifted his arms. She raised the cotton up and over his head and tossed it to join the cravat on the leather desktop. “Hands back on the chair.”
He made a soft groan but did as he was told, and her breath caught as she studied him. His torso rippled with muscle and narrowed to a lean waist with a line of dark hair that arrowed from his navel down beneath his breeches.
Good lord, the man was beautiful—if such a word could be used for someone so undeniably male. He was like one of those marble statues she’d seen in a museum in Paris, carved by those same ancient Romans who classified their kisses into types. He was the embodiment of power, willingly restrained, and Anya felt her throat tighten in gratitude. What a man. What a gift.
She circled him and he regarded her warily, like a wolf trapped in a snare, unsure whether she meant to free him or dispatch him. She stepped behind him and, giving in to impulse, kissed the nape of his neck. She heard his sharp intake of breath and smiled against his skin. Next, she placed her lips to the slope of neck and shoulder and flicked out her tongue to taste. His skin was slightly salty, and her nose filled with his heady, masculine scent. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she ran her hands greedily over the swell of his bicep then down the long sinews of his forearms.
“Anya,” he breathed softly. A warning and a plea.
She reached around and slid her flattened palms over his chest, then down his stomach. His muscles jumped in responsive relay. She stopped at the waistband of breeches.
“Lower,” he demanded, turning his face into her hair. “Or come back around here and kiss me.”
She stepped back around the chair.
“Closer, between my legs.”
She did so, and saw his arm muscles twitch as he fought the impulse to release the chair. The control he was exerting was remarkable. It would be so easy for him to take her in his arms, but voluntary resistance was a piquant part of the game.
“Not yet,” she teased. “Not until I say.”
His hot glare promised retribution of the most sinful, pleasurable kind. Her knees felt weak. Who’d have thought playing with fire could be so much fun?
“This is killing me,” he groaned.
She bent and touched her mouth to his. He tried to devour her, to impress his will on her through his kiss, so she drew back and sent him a laughing look of silent admonishment.
He growled, deep in his throat. “Fine. As slow as you like.”
She kissed him again. And again. A steady rain of kisses, longer and deeper until she put her hands on his shoulders and stroked up his neck to tangle her fingers in his hair. His corded muscles strained for release. She cupped his face and drank him in, lost in the darkness, the heat.
She slid her hand down between their bodies and over the bulge in his breeches, exploring the amazing contours of his body. He sucked in a breath and hissed out a curse. She stepped back, panting, astounded by the ferocity of her own reactions. Her breasts felt achy and the flesh between her legs throbbed with need.
“Yes,” he said fiercely. “Undo my breeches. I want to feel myself in your hand.”
She wanted that too. She fumbled a little with the button at his falls, but then he sprang free, hot and hard in her palm. He groaned and tilted his head back in apparent bliss. “Wrap your fingers around me. Tighter.”
She did, amazed at the texture of this most masculine part of him, at the mat of curly dark hair that surrounded it. She gave a little squeeze and glanced up to gauge his reaction. His eyes rolled back in his head.
“God yes, perfect.”
She’d heard Charlotte’s girls talk about this. About having a man in your hands, or in your mouth. She’d thought the whole thing sounded quite strange, unpleasant, even, but now she began to see the appeal. She wanted to give Wolff pleasure, wanted to touch and taste.
She pressed his knees apart and dropped to the floor between his thighs. His head snapped back up. She gazed up at him earnestly. “I want to see what you taste like.”
He gave a groan of wholehearted assent, and she was filled with sudden tenderness. There was something wonderful about having such a physically powerful man reduced to a begging, quivering mess. This was what she’d wanted forever—a power of her own, something completely unrelated to her position as a princess.
She ran her fingers over him, marveling at the bead of clear fluid that had appeared, then bent and flicked her tongue experimentally against him. He tasted clean and bright, like the sea. His hips bucked and he nearly arched off the seat.
“Hands on the chair,” she reminded him sternly, thoroughly enjoying her position of mastery.
He shuddered. “Again. Do it again. Please.”
She was happy to oblige. She licked him, tiny laps of the tongue, gratified by his response. Growing bolder, she opened her mouth over him.
“Fuuuuuck!”
He thumped his booted heels on the floor, and she suppressed a little smile of feminine triumph. She, Anya Denisova, did this to him! He, who was no stranger to women, was finding pleasure in her touch. She licked him again, and he moaned.
“That’s so good. Don’t stop.”
He tilted his hips and pushed himself a l
ittle farther into her mouth. “Stroke your hand up and down,” he instructed hoarsely. “Tighter. Grip tighter. Close—God, I’m so close. You should—I can’t—”
She didn’t stop. She wanted to see him lose control, wanted to be the one to push him to the peak of pleasure.
“Anya, I’m going to—”
She lifted her head and stroked him as his entire body went rigid. He pushed himself hard into her hand, every muscle straining and shaking. Spurts of viscous white liquid jetted over her fingers, his stomach, cooling rapidly in the air.
Anya felt almost dizzy, her heart filled to bursting. She took her hand away and rested it on his thigh, savoring the feel of the corded muscles twitching beneath the fine cloth. “You can release the chair now, Mr. Wolff,” she croaked.
He was panting, his chest rising and falling in great gusts as if he’d been running. His member lay against his stomach in the open fall of his breeches, only marginally smaller now that he’d found release. He gave a deep, contented sigh and stretched his arms out in front of him, then brushed her hair back from her face with a tender caress. He used his shirt to clean her hand and his stomach, then rebuttoned the fall of breeches.
Anya rose shakily to her feet. He opened his arms to her.
“Come here.”
He drew her down onto his lap and buried his face in her neck. “Thank you. That was incredible. Like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”
She nestled her head into his shoulder, suddenly shy, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
So that was the male climax in all its glory. She’d been surprised, certainly, but not disgusted. He’d obviously received great pleasure, and she’d enjoyed giving it to him. Her entire body was filled with a thrumming, restless energy.
He pulled back to look at her and gave her a smile that heated her blood even more. “Now it’s your turn.”
Chapter 25.
What the hell had just happened?