Bad Kitty by Debra Glass

again.
    The hillock between her legs pulsed and Kitty raised herself onto her elbows and peered through the darkness but all she could see of Bram was his forearm, bare where he had turned up his sleeves, and his long fingers relaxed on the arm of his chair.
    What would he do if she went to him? Would he take her in his arms? Would he bend her over his knee like a wayward child and give her a sound thrashing?
    Her heart raced at either option.
    But then something ugly ripened in her thoughts. What if this initiation was for every maid in his service? What if she was not special?
    She drew in a deep breath and then blew it out. What could possibly come of this other than appeasing her curiosity and gathering fodder for her article?
    Mrs. Bush’s words echoed in her head. Do not take on any childish hopes he will take make you his wife, or even as his mistress for that matter.
    Kitty’s breath froze in her lungs. What was she thinking? Surely she was not considering, even fantasizing, about being Bram Barclay’s wife! That was stupid.
    Would any other man could command her mind and body the way Bram did?
    Now that she’d had a taste of physical pleasure, Kitty longed for more. So much more.
    Before she could stop herself, she threw back the covers and padded quietly across the room to where Bram slept in his chair.
    Asleep, he lacked the hard lines that were etched into his face during the day. He looked younger and Kitty realized she had not given any thought to what his age might be. Here, in the flickering firelight, he looked to be in his early thirties.
    In one hand he loosely gripped the neck of an empty brandy decanter. His snifter had toppled to the floor by the edge of his chair.
    Kitty resisted the overwhelming urge to brush the lock of black hair away that had stolen across his forehead. He had removed his neck kerchief and his shirt gaped open to reveal a smattering of black down on his chest. Without his vest and coat, she could see his taut stomach. What would those rippling muscles feel like under her palms?
    Cream gathered in her channel and she realized she was standing naked before one of the most debauched man in all of London. Oddly, her nudity no longer bothered her. Instead she felt free and, although for all practical purposes she was the earl’s prisoner, this experience had liberated her in a way she had never dreamed possible.
    Boldly, Kitty moved closer. The sharp, woody scent of brandy met her as she eased the decanter out of his fingers to place it on the floor.
    He jolted awake and his eyes widened.
    Kitty did not hesitate. She took his hand in hers. “Come to bed.”
    He rubbed his face with his free hand as he stood but he allowed her to lead him. Kitty’s heart thundered as they neared the bed. Her entire body shuddered with the need to feel his hard, masculine length, his heat, near her. But there was also fear. In a bed, under the covers, she knew if he pursued her sexually she would submit willingly. The idea of opening her thighs, of feeling his thick heat move over and then into her, sent waves of desire undulating through her.
    Bram sucked in a breath and Kitty wondered if he was truly awake or blindly allowing her to lead him. Once he reached the edge of the bed he stumbled, and Kitty caught his shoulders and righted him. His breathy groan told her he was practically sleepwalking.
    “Take this off,” she whispered, unfastening the buttons down the front of his shirt. His fly was mostly undone but she managed to loose those buttons as well to get him out of his clothes.
    Light from the fire illuminated his body and Kitty’s breath caught in her throat. He was glorious. Naked, he looked leaner than he did in clothes. His musculature was as perfectly sculpted as Michelangelo’s David . Broad shoulders, strong arms. The flat plane of his chest was dusted with sparse black hairs, which tapered into a line aiming at his phallus. Kitty longed to taste that part of him again. Only this