stand naked at Tattersall’s to put that tone in his voice. Well, no, she wouldn’t, but she would have considered it.
“I love your pale skin. So white. So creamy. I want to bite you. You are far more tempting than Eve’s apple.”
Now she wanted to turn, not because she felt ashamed, but because she wanted to see his face, see the look in his eyes. Did it match his voice?
Her feet stayed planted. He’d asked her to be still and she would be, no matter how great the urge to move grew.
Silence grew behind her and it became increasingly hard not to turn so that she could see what Jonathan was thinking.
What was he looking at? She was not that interesting.
Was she?
She could still feel the weight of his gaze. Her toes curled and then relaxed.
The ache between her thighs grew. Her breasts felt heavy.
Was he thinking about what they would do? Was he imagining touching her? She certainly imagined his touch, longed for it. She wanted to turn, to demand more.
She told herself to focus on something; on the flame of the fire, on the softness of the bed, or perhaps on the delicate porcelain statue by the bed, a Grecian-style piece, a couple entwined—oh dear, what were they doing? Surely a hand was not reaching…
And then Jonathan’s boots clicked on the floor behind her. A step. Another step. She could not quite see him, but could sense the movement at the corner of her eyes.
“I love the side of your breast, the gentle fold, the curve, the hint of a rosy nipple. And the beginning of the soft roundness of your belly. I can’t wait to press into it, to feel the comfort, the cushion, the womanliness that is all you.”
She swallowed—and swallowed again. Her belly? He liked her belly?
Another step and she could see him. He’d removed his jacket, and the white linen of his shirt was in sharp contrast to the black of his breeches and boots. Most gentlemen wore stockings and slippers for evening, but there was something about the boots that fanned the spark within her. She pressed her thighs tighter.
“And what was that thought, my dear?”
“What do you mean?”
“What caused that mouthwatering little shiver?”
He’d noticed that? He’d watched her that closely. “I like your boots.” Oh, that sounded inane.
“My boots?” he asked, but it was not a question. “I am glad, and I begin to wonder what else you might like. I begin to think that we may be more compatible than I ever dreamed.”
He took another step, moving fully into her view. His hair was mussed, his top button undone. And the look on his face, in his eyes…A flush started at her toes and moved up, spreading. She felt like a goddess, a strong and powerful goddess. And oh, the want, the need, that flashed within her at that look.
“Please…” she murmured, practically begging.
He didn’t reply but, reaching out, snagged a chair and sat, his eyes continuing to move over her.
She should have felt awkward, but all of that had vanished in the hunger of his gaze.
She closed her eyes and waited, willingly allowing him to look his fill.
Her chest rose and fell. She felt dampness leak at the apex of her thighs, heard his intake of sharp breath, and let herself anticipate, let herself wonder at what was to come.
Had a minute passed? Had five? Ten?
Did it matter? She was his, his for this night, his to do with as he wished, and if looking was what he desired, then look he might.
Her breath was coming in shallow puffs. Her knees still felt weak, like they might give at any moment. And the heat of his gaze. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him. She’d thought that by closing her eyes she could shield herself, but instead everything grew more intense, more…
It must’ve been five minutes. Opening her eyes, she saw he still sat there, unmoving. She could take no more. “Forgive me for speaking, but is this your revenge?”
His eyes jerked up to meet hers. “What?”
“Are you just making me wait because I refused you
“I love your pale skin. So white. So creamy. I want to bite you. You are far more tempting than Eve’s apple.”
Now she wanted to turn, not because she felt ashamed, but because she wanted to see his face, see the look in his eyes. Did it match his voice?
Her feet stayed planted. He’d asked her to be still and she would be, no matter how great the urge to move grew.
Silence grew behind her and it became increasingly hard not to turn so that she could see what Jonathan was thinking.
What was he looking at? She was not that interesting.
Was she?
She could still feel the weight of his gaze. Her toes curled and then relaxed.
The ache between her thighs grew. Her breasts felt heavy.
Was he thinking about what they would do? Was he imagining touching her? She certainly imagined his touch, longed for it. She wanted to turn, to demand more.
She told herself to focus on something; on the flame of the fire, on the softness of the bed, or perhaps on the delicate porcelain statue by the bed, a Grecian-style piece, a couple entwined—oh dear, what were they doing? Surely a hand was not reaching…
And then Jonathan’s boots clicked on the floor behind her. A step. Another step. She could not quite see him, but could sense the movement at the corner of her eyes.
“I love the side of your breast, the gentle fold, the curve, the hint of a rosy nipple. And the beginning of the soft roundness of your belly. I can’t wait to press into it, to feel the comfort, the cushion, the womanliness that is all you.”
She swallowed—and swallowed again. Her belly? He liked her belly?
Another step and she could see him. He’d removed his jacket, and the white linen of his shirt was in sharp contrast to the black of his breeches and boots. Most gentlemen wore stockings and slippers for evening, but there was something about the boots that fanned the spark within her. She pressed her thighs tighter.
“And what was that thought, my dear?”
“What do you mean?”
“What caused that mouthwatering little shiver?”
He’d noticed that? He’d watched her that closely. “I like your boots.” Oh, that sounded inane.
“My boots?” he asked, but it was not a question. “I am glad, and I begin to wonder what else you might like. I begin to think that we may be more compatible than I ever dreamed.”
He took another step, moving fully into her view. His hair was mussed, his top button undone. And the look on his face, in his eyes…A flush started at her toes and moved up, spreading. She felt like a goddess, a strong and powerful goddess. And oh, the want, the need, that flashed within her at that look.
“Please…” she murmured, practically begging.
He didn’t reply but, reaching out, snagged a chair and sat, his eyes continuing to move over her.
She should have felt awkward, but all of that had vanished in the hunger of his gaze.
She closed her eyes and waited, willingly allowing him to look his fill.
Her chest rose and fell. She felt dampness leak at the apex of her thighs, heard his intake of sharp breath, and let herself anticipate, let herself wonder at what was to come.
Had a minute passed? Had five? Ten?
Did it matter? She was his, his for this night, his to do with as he wished, and if looking was what he desired, then look he might.
Her breath was coming in shallow puffs. Her knees still felt weak, like they might give at any moment. And the heat of his gaze. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him. She’d thought that by closing her eyes she could shield herself, but instead everything grew more intense, more…
It must’ve been five minutes. Opening her eyes, she saw he still sat there, unmoving. She could take no more. “Forgive me for speaking, but is this your revenge?”
His eyes jerked up to meet hers. “What?”
“Are you just making me wait because I refused you
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