Petra threw the wispy piece of cotton, silk and lace over her shoulders, careful to tie the pink ribbons at the shoulder. She knew the risk she took. Brendan had said today he wanted her and meant to have her. But she was of a mind to take things into her own hands lest she find herself married to Simon.
Petra meant to make her own decisions from this moment forward.
28
Brendan took another sip of the scotch, wishing he was drunk and disappointed he was not. Simon probably watered down the alcohol in the sideboard. Or Lady Pendleton did. You’d think with the money they were stealing from his family, Simon would have a better quality of liquor in available in his study. The poor scotch only added to Brendan’s opinion of Simon.
Fucking prig.
Quiet footsteps sounded in the hall outside his room. A soft click of the door and Brendan instantly regretted not throwing the lock. He’d impressed upon Woods not to bother him this evening. The valet had been hovering about him like an elderly grandmother since discovering the small gash on Brendan’s arm.
“Woods, I told you I do not need your services tonight. My arm is fine. It’s only a scratch. Begone. Find something to amuse yourself.”
The room stayed silent except for the crackling of the wood in the fire. Whoever entered hadn’t left. He knew it wasn’t his mother, for she’d be talking to him. Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion something was going on between Mother and Haddon, which he would have to deal with at a later time.
“It’s not Woods. It’s me.”
Brendan nearly dropped his glass of scotch, and he cursed softly. The length of his cock hardened immediately at the sound of Petra’s voice. Turning, he watched in surprise as she came toward him, her bare toes curling into the carpet. She was clothed in a ridiculous bit of lace and pink ribbon. If he squinted just a bit, Brendan could make out the dusky circles of her nipples and a delicious shadow between her legs.
Jesus.
“I need to speak to you,” she murmured, toying with the ribbon at her shoulder holding what he was sure was supposed to be an innocent young lady’s nightgown. Shouldn’t such a thing be made of thick cotton? It offered no more protection than an oversized napkin.
“You are wearing what amounts to a doily, Petra. I don’t think you are here to talk.”
Her eyes were heavy lidded, watching him with an innocent hunger that send another pulse to his cock. “No,” she whispered, coming closer until he was engulfed in the scent of roses and sugar cookies. “I am here for something else.” She tugged at the ribbon on her left shoulder.
“You don’t know what you’re saying. Or doing.” This was not exactly how he had intended to spend the evening, though he was far from disappointed. Thoughts of revenge fled his mind. His mouth fairly watered as the tiny bow pulled free and the lace slid down the skin of her shoulders, catching on the hardened peaks of her nipples.
“I’m exhausted with everyone telling me what it is I should want, Brendan. I’ll hear no more of it, not even from you.” Her chin tilted mulishly. “I know exactly what it is I want.” An impish smiled graced her lips. “And as for this,” she waved over the silky lace, “Madame Moliere’s. I wanted something pretty.”
The silk was barely clinging to her breasts. He didn’t care that she’d probably had it made with Simon in mind. One shrug and the night rail fell down around her waist.She was trembling, either from the chill in the room or her bold behavior. Petra was lovely. Her small breasts were high and full, the nipples hardened and begging for his attention. He’d been right about the color. Pale pink.
“Do you want to know why I was wandering about the gritstone with no escort when you found me today?”
“You actually found me, if we are being truthful.”
“My God, must you always be so contrary?”
“Yes.” Actually hehadbeen wondering why she’d been out there alone and so far from Brushbriar. But with the discovery of his father, his anger at her, misdirected as it was, had caused him to forget. Of course, at the moment, he could barely think straight. “What happened?”
A wiggle of her hips and the nightgown slid down her legs to pool around her ankles. With her hair spilling down to her waist and the fluff of a nightgown amassed on the floor at her feet, Petra resembled a painting he’d seen once of Aphrodite rising from the foam of the sea. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the artist. Not that such a thing was important at the moment. And he didn’t give a shit about art.
“It’s not important. You said you wanted me and meant to have me.”
“Yes.”
“Then take me.”
* * *
Petra stoodbetween Brendan’s legs, naked and trembling, afraid he’d find her wanting in some way. Would he reject her? She knew he desired her physically. He’d told her so. Why was he just staring at her?
I love him. She did. No matter what happened after this evening, she wished her first time to be with the person she loved. Her choice.Her decision.
His eyes roamed over her body as he took one last sip of the scotch, setting the glass none too gently on the table. Hunger crossed his face, so intense she nearly moved away from him, but she held her ground. A big hand came out to splay possessively against her stomach and she shivered, desire for him coursing through her veins. His fingers ran down through the soft hair covering her mound, before one digit slid between her legs, stroking her.
“Are you certain?” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her stomach, gently nipping at the soft skin.
