Freddie raised an eyebrow but complied, unbuttoning then tossing the white silk over the back of the chaise longue.
“Any other requests, madam?” His fingers played on her knees again, this time reaching down to learn the contours of her calves.
“The shirt,” Charlotte choked out, breathless from the sensations caused by Freddie’s fingers and incredulous at her own audacity in ordering him to undress.
Freddie removed one dainty bronze ribbon slipper from her foot and placed his hands again on her thighs. “Be my guest.” In his smile there was a challenge, and in his eyes a tempered passion. Charlotte wanted to see his eyes heat and burn for her.
Roughly pulling off one white glove, then the next, Charlotte threw them aside and reached up to caress Freddie’s neck with her fingertips. He watched her every movement, clenching his hands on her thighs slightly when her fingers first touched him. Meeting his eyes, which were now beginning to smolder, she slid her fingers down the open V of his shirt. Then she withdrew and her fingers skimmed down the fabric, feeling the hard planes of his chest beneath, until she reached his waistband. With a jerk, the fine lawn was free and she pulled it over his head, exposing his chest to her eager gaze.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she returned and allowed her fingers to brush against the flesh at his throat, then the broad expanse of his chest. She paused, glanced up at him, and moved lower. Freddie’s grip on her thighs tightened, and she traced a bold path of hard strokes across his ribs and over the hard muscles of his back. With a jerk, she pulled him to her and closed her legs against his smooth flesh. His skin was deliciously hot along her inner thighs, where her stockings did not reach.
“You’re so warm,” she whispered against his throat, kissing the line of his jaw and rubbing her lips against the brassy stubble she felt there.
“I’m burning up.” His breath tickled her temple lightly. “But you’re not shivering . . . yet.”
“Hmm?” Charlotte murmured, tracing his earlobe with her teeth. Freddie’s fingers clenched her thighs more tightly. She tilted her gaze up at him. “Why would I shiver?”
Freddie ran his hands up her legs, pausing at the juncture between them, the pressure from his fingers so light that she could barely feel it. But she knew he was there, felt the slightest caress, and almost jumped as he grazed the sensitive skin. “Ah, now you’re shivering.”
Charlotte glanced down. The folds of her skirt blocked the movement of his fingers but not the sensation. He cupped her gently, then inserted one finger, sliding it against her, repeating the motion until she couldn’t stop herself from arching and crying out.
At the sound of her voice, Charlotte flushed. “Stop, Freddie. Someone will—oh!”
Freddie’s fingers rasped against her slick, swollen folds mercilessly and she was lost again momentarily. “You . . . must . . . stop,” she finally managed.
“Very well.” His movements ceased and he withdrew his hand, leaving it resting gently on her thigh. Charlotte blinked once. She hadn’t really expected him to stop. Hadn’t really wanted him to, but she couldn’t very well ask him to start again when he was only doing what she asked. And it was for the best.
Resigned, Charlotte reached down to straighten the material of her skirt, but Freddie moved quickly and caught her hands. “Lie back.”
Charlotte met his eyes. Oh, George Washington. He didn’t really intend to stop after all. She bit her lip in frustration and indecision. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
A ghost of a smile curved at his lips. “I’ll stop anytime you say.” She narrowed her eyes, and he added, “Give me one moment.” Charlotte pressed her lips together, and Freddie whispered, “Lie back.”
She did. The chaise longue must have been at least six feet in length because Charlotte didn’t even reach the head. She sank into the padding, her feet dangling at the knee from the bottom.
Suddenly Freddie grasped her legs and pulled her forward so that she was pressed intimately against his bare chest. Before she could respond, he rubbed against her, the light dusting of hair on his chest stroking her. Charlotte didn’t know whether to protest or wriggle against him. He repeated the provocative motion, then flipped up her skirt in one quick movement.
The forbidden feel of the air on her tender flesh combined with the heat from Freddie’s chest pressed against her was exquisite. Charlotte closed her eyes, deciding she would stop him. Just one more minute. And then, unexpectedly, he moved away. Charlotte opened her eyes in time to see Freddie bend down and kiss her lower abdomen. She trembled as his tongue laved a path from her belly to her auburn curls.
Freddie moved lower, and a jolt of pure pleasure shot through her. With a vague memory of what he’d done the night before, and a keen sense of embarrassment at having allowed it, Charlotte levered herself on her elbows. “No—don’t—what are you doing?”
Freddie peered up at her. “Making you ache.” He bent again, touching his tongue to her. “And burn.”
“Yes!” Charlotte cried out before remembering herself. “I mean, no! You—oh!” She fell back on the chaise as Freddie parted her thighs and pressed his mouth against her once more.
And then nothing mattered but the feel of his tongue swirling against her. She was acutely aware of everything—the pressure of his thumbs against the skin of her thighs, the tickle of his cheek when he turned it, the rush of blood in her head and the thumping of her heart. She no longer heard the distant drone of the orchestra music or the rise and fall of people’s voices. There were only Freddie and she: her breathing in tune with his every movement, his knowing response to her slightest tremor. Vaguely she wondered how such a complicated man managed to make everything so simple.
And it was simple: she was meant to be with him. Charlotte knew it intuitively, knew it physically, and now knew it consciously. She would never have permitted anyone else to touch her this way. Couldn’t imagine why she allowed Freddie, except that she trusted him. When she needed help, he was there to offer it. When she needed to laugh, he could be counted on to supply the humor. When she needed passion, he proved more than equal to the task.
Of course, he was a warrior, whose shields and bastions would be difficult to breach, but she loved him in spite of it.
She loved him.
And with that undeniable realization, Charlotte gripped the arms of the chaise. Freddie stroked her expertly once more, withdrew to discard his clothing, and plunged into her. With a cry, Charlotte came apart.
Chapter Nineteen
As an immaculately dressed Lord Dewhurst led Lady Dewhurst through the crowds on the stairs a few minutes later, Charlotte was absolutely positive that everyone at the ball knew what Freddie had just done to her. She felt that it must be written all over her face. And, catching a glimpse of her features in one of the foyer’s mirrors as Freddie ordered their carriage, Charlotte almost groaned.
