The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(65)

Her flushed cheeks and sultry eyes betrayed that she wasn’t quite as scandalized as she wanted to be. He slanted another glance up at the enormous looking glass affixed to the ceiling. The image of their entwined bodies—hers nude, his clothed—magnified his lust.

Her eyes met his in the reflection, her lips parting. When she squirmed, his thigh nudged into the cove of her legs; he nearly groaned when her dew soaked his skin through the trousers. Despite her primness about certain matters, Primrose was a firebrand in bed.

Recalling her reaction to the viewing holes in his club, he decided it was an excellent time to broaden her horizons. To show her that she didn’t need to hide behind fashionable trappings and inhibitions. To guide her in the exploration of her desires.

“Who’s to say what is wicked?” he murmured. “In the bedroom, there are no rules between us, sunshine, except what we choose.”

“But you must admit a mirror above the bed is scandalous,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Perhaps. Is it not also arousing?” Deliberately, he shifted onto his side, giving her a full view of herself in the mirror. Anticipation simmered as he saw her gaze transfixing upon the image. “Let’s play a game, shall we? Keep your eyes on the mirror, and don’t stop looking until I tell you to.”





Chapter Twenty-Seven


“Tell me what you see, love,” Andrew said.

As Rosie looked up at the image, she saw with growing horror that all her beautifying efforts had gone to waste. She had nary a stitch on, her carefully contrived ensemble scattered somewhere between the sitting room and the bed. And her coiffure—Dear Lord. The Apollo’s knot had disintegrated, her hair tangled across the blue satin sheets in a messy riot of waves and braids. Unseemly color blotched her cheeks, and her breasts were surging, the tips brazenly erect.

When Andrew had made love to her in the past, she’d been so lost in the experience that she’d forgotten to care about her appearance. Now she was confronted with reality. The woman in the looking glass wasn’t perfect or composed or ladylike.

She looked like a wicked trollop—like a flower that had been plucked.

Mortified, she tried to cover herself—only to find her hands pinned above her head, her wrists held in Andrew’s large hand. Her gaze flew to his.

“Let me go,” she said urgently. “I have to tidy myself. I’m—”

“Perfect.”

“How can you say that? I’m at sixes and sevens.” To her shame, her voice wobbled. “I don’t want you to see me like this. Please, I have to get up.”

“Primrose, you’re always beautiful and never more so than at this moment.” He looked at her so intently that she squirmed. “Why would you doubt that?”

“Because everything I spent three hours perfecting is in shambles!” she cried. “Now I’m… I’m just…” Me. Fear welled from some deep place inside. “Please, let me go freshen up—”

“No.”

At his firm reply, she blinked. “Pardon?”

“Whatever you mean to do is unnecessary,” he stated. “You could spend another three hours fussing over your toilette, and it wouldn’t make a difference. You couldn’t be any more beautiful than you are right now.”

Flabbergasted, she stared at him. “That… that isn’t true.”

“It is. Your beauty has nothing to do with your fancy gowns and coiffures. It has to do with you.” His knuckles brushed along her jaw, the warm authority in his gaze mesmerizing. “Your eyes alone could launch a thousand ships. Your body makes a man want to take on that entire fleet for the privilege of calling you his own. Add in your spirit, intelligence, and madcap tendencies,”—his lips quirked—“and, plainly put, sunshine: you’re irresistible.”

Was it possible that he believed what he was saying? She scrutinized his chiseled features and saw only earnestness. She recalled all the times he’d told her she was beautiful—that she had nothing to hide from him. His words sank into her like a balm, soothing her fears.

Flummoxed, a bit giddy, she blurted, “I’m not a madcap.”

His smile reached his eyes. “You’re a wee bit daft now and again; it’s part of your charm. Now do you want to spend the evening arguing about this, or do you want me to make love to you?”

As much as she wanted to debate the finer points of her nature—she was definitely not daft in the slightest—there really was no contest.

“Make love to me,” she breathed.

“With pleasure.” His approval thrummed through her. “Keep your eyes on the mirror, darling.”

She did, watching as Andrew’s big hands cupped her breasts, his fingers skillfully teasing the rosy peaks. It was scandalous. And also… beautiful. From the outside looking in, there was nothing ugly or dirty about the lovers in the bed. As she witnessed the lovemaking unfold, her inhibitions loosened like a corset, and that first breath of freedom was heady.

Her back arched as his tongue worked lazily over her taut nipples.

“I love your tits,” he murmured. “Do you like the way I’m touching you—licking you?”

Her gaze instinctively sought his. “Y-yes.”

“Eyes on the glass, love,” he ordered.