“For what?” he said, his gaze flicking past her. Her heart sped up when she imagined what he saw. “For pleasure?”
She nodded. “Yes, and that is obscene.”
He took her chin between two fingers and brought her gaze to his face. “Are you telling me that feeling pleasure is obscene? That the physical expression of love between two people is obscene?”
She had not thought of it that way, and she had no ready answer.
“Look again through that curtain, Catie,” he said, releasing her chin. “Now you tell me if what you see is obscene.”
The couple was close together again, she still sitting on the bed, he kneeling on the floor before her. His hands were under her skirts, but he’d risen up and was kissing her passionately. Clare returned the kiss with equal fervor.
Valentine whispered in Catherine’s ear. “What is obscene about that? Was it obscene when I kissed you this morning? When I touched you?”
“No.” She watched Clare move against the boy and remembered her own urge to move closer to Valentine. “No, but you did not touch me like that.”
He chuckled softly, his breath tickling her ear. “Oh, but I want to. Look how the lad has lowered her gown, how her breasts spill forth. If that were you, I would bury my face in your flesh, kissing your nipples until they were hard pebbles against my tongue.”
“Sir!” Catherine shifted uncomfortably in her chair as warm wetness dampened her thighs. Her own breasts tingled in response to his words, her nipples growing hard once again. “You should not say such things.”
“Would you rather I do them?” And then she felt his hand, solid and light, on her knee.
“No, you mustn’t,” she hissed.
“Look through the curtain,” he said. “Do you see where his hands are?”
Lord help her, but she could not stop herself from looking.
“Tell me what you see,” Valentine prodded, even as she felt him lift her skirts under the table. She glanced about the room, praying no one could see what he was doing. But no one was looking at them, and Valentine’s body blocked hers from view.
“Tell me what he is doing, Catie.”
She glanced behind the curtain again and cleared her throat. “He is touching her.”
“How?” Valentine murmured, his hand sliding under her skirts to touch the bare skin of her knee. “Where?”
Catherine could barely find her voice. She could not believe she was answering Valentine’s questions, allowing him to touch her thus. But his warm hand felt so good on her, that she could not seem to stop her words from tumbling out. “He’s sliding his hand up her thigh.”
Valentine’s own hand slid up her thigh. She shivered.
“And then he slides it back down again.”
Valentine complied and then repeated the gesture. As Catherine watched, the boy did the same to Clare, but his hands were not on the top of Clare’s thighs, as Valentine’s were.
Catherine tried to speak and had to clear her throat again. “His hands slide up the inside of her thigh.”
Valentine paused for just a moment, and Catherine almost turned to look at him, but she dared not meet his gaze. She would feel too much shame at what she was doing then. Valentine’s hand slid up her inner thigh and back down again, and Catherine gasped.
“You like that,” Valentine said, his hand stroking her flesh again, this time his fingers reaching even higher so that Catherine had to restrain herself from moving to meet him. “Now what is the lad doing?”
Lord, help her but she knew if she said it Valentine would do it. “He’s spreading her legs.”
“And what is she doing?”
Catherine glanced at Clare as Valentine’s hand exerted gentle pressure, widening her own legs, just as she’d hoped and feared. “She’s sitting on the bed, bare on top, her head thrown back.” Indeed, Clare’s chest was heaving, and she appeared to be mewing with pleasure, and then Catherine gasped.
“Now what?”
“He has—he has just—” But she could not finish, and Valentine looked past her, then leaned back and smiled.
