The Governess Affair (Brothers Sinister #0.5)(26)

He finally returned bearing a towel. A steaming towel.

“This is a trick,” he said. “I learned it prize-fighting. Lie down on the bed.”

At that bare command, Serena froze. He paused and cocked his head, and then set a pin on the table beside her. “I’m not touching you—recall that I can’t until you ask. Lie down on the bed.”

Serena swallowed and complied. He sat next to her; the mattress gave way beneath his weight.

“Put this over your face.”

He handed over the cloth, hot and moist—almost too hot to touch. She unfolded it gingerly and then laid it over her eyes, covering her nose.

“Breathe in,” he said. “Slowly, now.”

The air was humid; she could feel the heat penetrating her skin, relaxing muscles she had not realized she’d tensed.

“Now exhale.” She did; the air beneath the towel cooled temporarily.

“Inhale.”

She was drifting away on warmth with every breath. “This is lovely.”

“Yes,” he said. “The more limber you are before a fight, the less likely you are to be hurt. Don’t know why that would be, but I suspect the same might hold true here as well.”

She let out a little sigh of contentment. “What now?”

“I couldn’t say,” he replied. “I’m out of pins.”

She pulled the towel from her face. “How can that be?”

He was watching her intently—his eyes dark, his mouth set in a determined line. He gestured to the table where he’d been laying pins the whole time. “I told you to breathe.”

She had thought that lust would be selfish, no matter who entertained it. But there was a decided lift to his chin, a look in his eyes. He’d done all that for her—to steal the tension from her muscles, the fear from her heart.

She was safe. This was the man she’d come to know. Determined, yes, and ambitious, too. But also playful and kind. He hadn’t hurt her. He’d seen her distress and he’d soothed it away.

She pushed one of the pins he’d piled up over to his side and took a deep breath for courage. “Take off my corset, Hugo.”

He’d scarcely touched her since he’d taken her hair down—just the brush of his fingers against hers as the pins had changed ownership.

He touched her now, curling one hand around her hip. His other rose to address the knot of her front-lacing corset. He loosened the garment almost reverently. His fingertips seemed almost to scorch her, even through the stiff fabric of her undergarment. Her lungs caught fire as he loosened the laces. She took a deep breath and inhaled his smell—something like salt and citrus.

Slowly, he undid the fastenings, peeling her corset from her. Released from confinement, her br**sts swelled out in front of her, covered only by the thin fabric of her chemise. The air was cool against her skin, but she could scarcely feel it.

His breathing had grown ragged. His gaze rested on the swell of her br**sts, where her ni**les made sharp peaks in the linen of her undergarment. His eyes moved in time with the cycle of her breath—up and down, as if he were already joined with her on some level.

He slid her pin back to lie next to the others. “Touch your br**sts.”

His voice was rough; his words sent a current of heat through her. She brought her hand up, never taking her eyes from his. She cupped the curve of one breast in the palm of her hand and his pupils dilated. She ran her thumb along the upper slope and he licked his lips. Her own touch sent a weak spark of pleasure pulsing through her, but it was his gaze—worshipful, almost devout—that magnified the thread of pleasure, encouraging it to grow.

She made another circle with her thumb, and he drew in another breath. And then, because her body begged for it—because his eyes pleaded for it—she teased her nipple with her fingertips. Desire shot through her, taking up an insistent, liquid beat between her legs.

He didn’t move to touch, to take. He just watched, his breath growing ragged. Her pleasure was his.

“Now…” She swallowed, and gathered her nerve. “Now you touch my br**sts.”

He leaned over her, setting his warm hand where hers had been. His thumb was rougher and more callused, brushing her nipple through the fabric of her shift. If her own touch had brought on a shock of pleasure, his called up a rough well of desire, dark and needy, from deep within. He leaned down and touched his lips to her other nipple. His breath was hot and humid; his tongue outlined the dark, puckered skin. She gave herself over to the sensation of being touched by him—small caresses still urgent with want; tongue and then teeth, teasing her, bringing her to the edge of her want.

“Stop,” she panted.

He pulled away. The muscles of his arm strained, holding himself in place.

“I want your trousers,” she told him.

“I want your chemise.”

They’d stopped exchanging pins, Serena realized—just slipped into one request given for another. She took a deep breath and pulled her chemise over her head. She freed her arms just in time to see him kicking his trousers and undergarments away. Now she could follow that dark line etched on his belly all the way down to a curly nest of hair, from which jutted his erection. He was hard and long, and so thick her fingers would scarcely meet if she were to place her hand around his member.

She reached out experimentally—yes—her thumb just overlapped her forefinger. He hissed as she touched him, but did not otherwise move. She stroked down his length, wondering at the contrast—warm and soft at first touch, yet hard as steel when she squeezed him. He made a noise in the back of his throat, something akin to a growl, and his hands gripped the bed sheets, but he didn’t move. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t take her in his arms. He simply shut his eyes and let her explore.