His will was weakening, seduced by the continued heat of her touch; grasping her wrist, he drew her hand away. Releasing it, he drew her nearer, his hands on her back urging her closer; trapped in his eyes, she permitted it. “Thathappens every time I see you. Whenever you’re close.”
He lowered his head, breathed against her lips as she instinctively tipped her head back, “Especially when you’re close.”
He covered her lips and kissed her, sensed her continuing question in the way she allowed him to explore, in the way she encouraged him to show her what she wanted to know—more.
Entirely willing, he gathered her more fully into his arms, held her captive, feeding both his senses and hers, building anticipation, letting desire rise up and take hold.
Once it had…once she was clinging to his shoulders, fingertips sinking in, once her breathing was rapid, tending ragged, he broke their embrace, swept her into his arms and carried her through the archway at the back of the gallery into the deserted parlor beyond.
He fell into a large armchair with her across his lap, surprising a laugh from her. But the laugh died as he leaned over her. She met his eyes through the dimness—for one pregnant moment studied them—then her lids lowered in blatant invitation; he closed the last inch and his lips covered hers once more.
Her hand slid from his nape to his cheek, cradling…as if holding him there while she kissed him back and flagrantly urged him on.
With her mouth, her tongue, with the pressure of her lips, urged him to show her more of desire—of what desire translated to between them. He had no reservations in fulfilling her wish, in letting his hand glide from her jaw, tracing down her throat, over her collarbone to the subtle swell of one breast.
He wasn’t hesitant about claiming it; her flesh firmed beneath his palm, her nipple pebbling beneath the fine silk of her bodice. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to slip the tiny pearl buttons free so he could touch and taste her, but a warning, distant but insistent, sounded in his brain.
Trapped in the moment, in their heated, increasingly fiery exchange, in the way she responded, spine bowing, restlessly seeking to learn yet more, it took him a few seconds to recognize and decode the message.
Knowledge is Penelope Ashford’s price.If he yielded too much, too quickly…
His way forward with her suddenly became a great deal clearer. She was a female for whom knowledge—both facts and even more experience—held a powerful appeal. And in this arena he was entirely willing to teach her anything and everything she wanted to learn.
But like any experienced teacher, he needed to exert some authority—to tempt her with answers to her first question, then tantalize her with the prospect of answering much more.
He needed to stagger her lessons—and ensure she left this one with both reason and eagerness to return for the next.
Beneath his lips, his hand, she was starting to grow demanding, sensing his momentary distraction with his thoughts.
He inwardly smiled, and gave her not what she wished, but more of what she had.
Through the silken screen of her gown he caressed her increasingly intimately, stroking down to her hip, shifting her so he could reach around and capture one firm globe of her bottom, and knead.
Possess. He didn’t try to mute his desire—its direction, its goal. That was what she’d wanted to know. He let it color every touch, every possessive caress.
So that when he ran his hand down the front of her thighs, stroking, assessing, then cupped her through the froth of silk, she gasped and quivered.
Enough. The tactician in his brain stepped forward, reminding him of his aim, his true goal.
He drew back, drew her back.
Penelope understood what he was doing, that he was retreating from showing her more, too much, perhaps, at this point, in this place. Disgruntled but resigned, she followed his lead, letting their kisses grow less ravenous, letting the hunger driving them slowly subside.
It didn’t, she noted, die, but, like a banked fire, settled to a smolder. Ready to burst into raging life at a touch.
The right touch. His.
That fact intrigued, as had the entire episode. Her skin felt flushed, her body warm, pleasured and strangely languid, yet ridden by an elusive, expectant urgency she’d yet to fully comprehend.
Their lips parted. He met her eyes as she opened them, studied them for an instant, then he sat up, and helped her up.
Once on her feet, she surveyed her gown, rather surprised to find it in passable state. She wriggled the bodice, brushed down the skirts, and tried—hard—not to dwell on the lingering sensation of his hands as he’d caressed her.
She’d wanted to know, had wordlessly asked, and had learned…a bit. Unfortunately, as her returning wits confirmed, not enough to unequivocally answer her burning question about him, about her in relation to him and vice versa.
She frowned, and turned to him as he adjusted his coat sleeves.
Before she could find words to ask, he volunteered, “That’s a taste of what desire is, at least between you and me.” Through the dimness, he caught her gaze. “If you want to know more, I’ll be happy to teach you.”
