The Lady Always Wins(11)

She walked to the window and looked out at the tulips. Half the field was denuded now; another wagon was being driven away. She shook her head sadly.

He should have comforted her. He should have reassured her. But truth was, he had nothing to reassure her with. Instead he crossed to the door behind her and locked it.

She must have heard the sound of the key turning, because she smiled. She didn’t protest or turn to him. She drew the curtains, hiding the disappearing flowers behind folds of crepe. And then, slowly, she turned to look at him.

They were both still fully clothed, and yet he felt flushed and exposed. Do this right, his better self admonished. But the rest of his body thrummed in an insistent counterpoint: Do this now.

He closed the distance between them, but she touched him first—setting her hands on his face and pulling him down to her. If there was any more powerful aphrodisiac than the fact that she wanted him, it was her scent, that subtle indefinable sweetness that marked her out among all other women. He kissed her, hard.

Her mouth opened to his with a practiced fluidity. Their kisses had stopped being just kisses; they were promises now, initial payments made on expectation. Her lips bruised his. And her hands on his jaw unleashed a deep-seated hunger: not just for sex, but for her. He felt as if he’d been famished all his life, and had been dropped in the midst of a feast. He wasn’t sure what to try first.

And he wasn’t alone. She undid the buttons of his coat, and then slid her hands around his waist.

It had never been like this when they were younger. He’d wanted her, of course, but her innocence had made her shy, and his had made him awkward. More awkward, at any rate.

There was no shyness in her now. She knew what her body was for, and what a man might do for her. When he slid his hand up her ribs, she sighed and turned her head. When his palm cupped her breast, she exhaled and kissed him harder.

She melted into him as he slipped his thumb beneath her neckline, sliding between her skin and her corset. He found the hardened tip of her nipple, and shivered at that simple, undeniable proof of her arousal. He rolled that nub between his fingers, and she let out a shuddering sigh, pushing against him.

Somehow, over the years, she’d grown comfortable with her own body, with her own pleasure. He wasn’t going to think about how that had happened. It was all the better for him. For them.

For now, he kissed her. Lust built between them, sure and steady, stoked by touch after steady touch. Her hips pressed against his. The curve of her waist fitted into his palm. She belonged there, her legs between his, her arms around him. He wanted it all—the gasp she let out, the tilt of her chin.

God. This should have been his—all his—these past years.

He pulled away from her, but only so that he could reach around to undo her gown. It was held together in back with little hooks and eyes.

“You do that awfully well,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Undoing the back of my gown without looking at what you’re seeing.”

“Do you suppose I was celibate all these years?”

She shook her head.

He’d only been celibate this last year, once he’d heard her husband had died. “I’ve done this before. Often enough that I’ve learned how to take a woman apart.”

Her eyes shivered shut. “Oh, you could do that back then, too.”

“I was referring to your clothing. I didn’t get to do that. Just your stockings, that one time.”

“Mmm.” The last little clasp gave way, and he slid her gown down her shoulders. Her corset was fastened in the back; he undid the laces, and pulled it out of the way. “There we are.” Her chemise clung to her skin, outlining full, sweet br**sts. He could see the dark hint of her ni**les through the sheer cloth.

He’d never seen her naked. They’d kissed—and more—but they’d stayed on the frustrating side of chaste. Her doing, really; he’d certainly made no great efforts on that front. For all her talk of being a mad Barrett, she’d always been the practical one.

The most he’d managed to see was her legs, and once—on that memorable occasion when he’d removed a stocking—her thighs. Now he wanted everything. Not just her sex, slick and waiting for him, but her br**sts, her bu**ocks, the dimple of her navel, the curve of her spine. He wanted to taste her all over.

And then, as if she knew how best to torment him, she pulled her shift over her head, and let it fall atop the rest of her clothing. His mouth dried. Her ni**les were erect; he leaned forward and traced a finger lightly in a circle around one.

She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. His hand cupped her hip, exploring the curve of her body. The triangle of dark, coarse hair between her legs begged to be touched. Tasted. By dint of pure will, he managed to hold himself back.

“This is some kind of diabolical plan on your part,” he said. “To drive me mad with lust, and then walk away, leaving me in dire pain.”

“Wouldn’t that be perfect?” she responded with a smile. Her eyes shivered shut as he played his fingers up her ribs. “You’ve said that you’ll seduce me and stomp on my heart. Instead, I bring you to the point of begging. Then I walk away, declaring myself the victor.”

His heart almost stopped beating. “Are you going to do that?”

She looked up to the ceiling. “Oh, I’m sure I will,” she said, with an air of unconcern that was rather belied by the flush in her cheeks. “That would be an excellent dastardly plan for me. But it’s all too easy to thwart. You could drive me so mad with desire that I forget to deny you.”