gray silk tie—knotted like a noose—climbed a corded throat . . . blocked the flaring protrusion of a nostril . . . rifled red-and-gold glinting hair. Three gold studs winked in the gaslight; tapered fingers twisted and turned until stiff white cotton gaped in an ever-widening V and exposed flesh-colored wool. Black silk suspenders snaked over blindingly white sleeves.
There was no hesitation in Jack Lodoun’s motions, no self-consciousness in his movements.
The white shirt escaped banding black trousers and inched up flesh-colored wool that molded jutting ribs . . . two button-hard nipples. . . .
White cotton fluttered to the floor.
Between one blink and another, the flesh-colored vest was jerked upward.
Red-gold hair winked in the flickering light: on his chest . . . underneath his arms. . . .
The vest cleared his head and fluttered to the floor.
Rose’s breath hitched inside her throat.
Light and shadow danced on sharp collarbones, tautly defined muscular shoulders. Beaded brown nipples pierced the glinting bed of red-and-gold hair that arrowed down a tautly ridged stomach.
Jack Lodoun, Rose realized with a sharp pang, was a beautiful man.
A cinder exploded.
Rose abruptly became aware of the utter stillness inside the drawing room.
Her gaze shot upward.
His gaze waited for hers.
“Do you mind if I sit down to take off my shoes and socks?”
Jack Lodoun’s voice was impersonal. Heat glowed inside his purple-blue eyes.
“No.” Rose swallowed. “Please.”
A sharp squeak of springs grated her skin, the blue damask settee protesting his weight.
Eyelashes shielding his gaze, he leaned over.
Thick curls shaped the nape of his neck, darker than the fine hair that covered his body. The muscles in his arms and shoulders alternately flexed and stretched, a living composition of light and darkness.
Velvet-covered wood impacted the backs of Rose’s calves: She collapsed on the facing armchair.
Long, tapered fingers reached up underneath black wool trousers, exposed taut black silk. Unhurriedly, they peeled down socks and clinging braces.
A burning ache spread through Rose’s chest, that she enjoyed this intimacy with a stranger she had known for less than twenty-four hours instead of her husband of over twelve years.
Squeaking springs overrode the pain of regret.
Jack Lodoun stood. Long, tapered fingers reached for the front of his trousers . . . liberated one button . . . two buttons . . . three buttons—pink shone in the widening gap of black wool—four buttons . . . five buttons . . .
Rose’s breath rasped her throat.
In one smooth jerk, the black trousers and pink woolen smallclothes slid down over hips that were narrower than hers. Over thighs that were harder than hers. Over legs that were longer than hers.
Both his thighs and his calves glinted with red-gold fire.
Unerringly her gaze focused on the sex that jutted out of dark, wiry brown hair: It was both longer and thicker than the man in the postcard.
The blue veins striating Jack Lodoun’s flesh pulsed. Unlike the bloodless flesh of the man in the postcard.
A pulse leapt to life deep inside Rose’s breasts . . . her womb . . . her vagina . . . her clitoris . . . her eyes.
The plum-shaped head suddenly flushed a dark red: It jerked, reaching out to Rose.
Rose’s breath hitched inside her lungs.
A drop of liquid pearled inside the tiny urethra—as if squeezed out by an invisible hand—and elongated to form a crystalline thread that shimmered, first in shadow, then in light.
Long seconds passed, he standing naked, she nakedly gazing at his sex.
Tentative, tapered fingers grasped the swollen shaft that was engorged with blue veins.
His sex was longer than his fingers. Thicker than his fingers combined.
He lifted the heavy flesh in his left hand. He kissed the tiny urethra with his right hand.
Rose’s fingers clenched into fists.
Even as she watched, clear, shiny liquid crawled down the small cleft that cleaved the crown
There was no hesitation in Jack Lodoun’s motions, no self-consciousness in his movements.
The white shirt escaped banding black trousers and inched up flesh-colored wool that molded jutting ribs . . . two button-hard nipples. . . .
White cotton fluttered to the floor.
Between one blink and another, the flesh-colored vest was jerked upward.
Red-gold hair winked in the flickering light: on his chest . . . underneath his arms. . . .
The vest cleared his head and fluttered to the floor.
Rose’s breath hitched inside her throat.
Light and shadow danced on sharp collarbones, tautly defined muscular shoulders. Beaded brown nipples pierced the glinting bed of red-and-gold hair that arrowed down a tautly ridged stomach.
Jack Lodoun, Rose realized with a sharp pang, was a beautiful man.
A cinder exploded.
Rose abruptly became aware of the utter stillness inside the drawing room.
Her gaze shot upward.
His gaze waited for hers.
“Do you mind if I sit down to take off my shoes and socks?”
Jack Lodoun’s voice was impersonal. Heat glowed inside his purple-blue eyes.
“No.” Rose swallowed. “Please.”
A sharp squeak of springs grated her skin, the blue damask settee protesting his weight.
Eyelashes shielding his gaze, he leaned over.
Thick curls shaped the nape of his neck, darker than the fine hair that covered his body. The muscles in his arms and shoulders alternately flexed and stretched, a living composition of light and darkness.
Velvet-covered wood impacted the backs of Rose’s calves: She collapsed on the facing armchair.
Long, tapered fingers reached up underneath black wool trousers, exposed taut black silk. Unhurriedly, they peeled down socks and clinging braces.
A burning ache spread through Rose’s chest, that she enjoyed this intimacy with a stranger she had known for less than twenty-four hours instead of her husband of over twelve years.
Squeaking springs overrode the pain of regret.
Jack Lodoun stood. Long, tapered fingers reached for the front of his trousers . . . liberated one button . . . two buttons . . . three buttons—pink shone in the widening gap of black wool—four buttons . . . five buttons . . .
Rose’s breath rasped her throat.
In one smooth jerk, the black trousers and pink woolen smallclothes slid down over hips that were narrower than hers. Over thighs that were harder than hers. Over legs that were longer than hers.
Both his thighs and his calves glinted with red-gold fire.
Unerringly her gaze focused on the sex that jutted out of dark, wiry brown hair: It was both longer and thicker than the man in the postcard.
The blue veins striating Jack Lodoun’s flesh pulsed. Unlike the bloodless flesh of the man in the postcard.
A pulse leapt to life deep inside Rose’s breasts . . . her womb . . . her vagina . . . her clitoris . . . her eyes.
The plum-shaped head suddenly flushed a dark red: It jerked, reaching out to Rose.
Rose’s breath hitched inside her lungs.
A drop of liquid pearled inside the tiny urethra—as if squeezed out by an invisible hand—and elongated to form a crystalline thread that shimmered, first in shadow, then in light.
Long seconds passed, he standing naked, she nakedly gazing at his sex.
Tentative, tapered fingers grasped the swollen shaft that was engorged with blue veins.
His sex was longer than his fingers. Thicker than his fingers combined.
He lifted the heavy flesh in his left hand. He kissed the tiny urethra with his right hand.
Rose’s fingers clenched into fists.
Even as she watched, clear, shiny liquid crawled down the small cleft that cleaved the crown
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