Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(104)

The cord rasped softly as it slid apart. She took the cloak from his shoulders, carefully placing it along with his hat next to the candle atop the chair. When she turned back to him, he was still standing, watching her curiously. He’d made no move to take off any more of his clothing.

“You healed me.” She swallowed and placed her hands on his shoulders. His jerk this time was softer, as if he either strove to contain the pain or it had receded a bit. She hoped it was the latter. “You made me whole again after years of suffering. I’d like to do the same for you.”

Slowly, gently, she took off his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth. When she began unbuttoning his shirt, she could feel him shivering under her fingertips. For a moment, her courage failed her. What if forcing her touch on him merely made him more sensitive to it? Gave him more pain?

Then she looked into his face.

“Very well,” he said. “But don’t be disappointed if this doesn’t work. I’ll still love you no matter what.”

She felt tears prick her eyes at his calm acceptance of her and what she wanted to do. Whatever happened, they were in this together and that at least made her feel better.

Bit by bit, one article of clothing at a time, she undressed him in near-complete silence. By the time they got down to his smallclothes, she was out of breath and he was already erect under the cloth. Her hands shook as she divested him of his last article of clothing.

She stood back and looked at him.

He was magnificent nude. His silver hair spread over his shoulders, long enough to brush his dark nipples. In contrast, the hair on his body was nearly black. Dark curls swirled between his nipples in a diamond-shaped pattern on his chest. His hard belly was bare, but just below his navel, the dark hair began again, in a thin line that trailed to the curls around his manhood. His legs were long and strong, his shoulders broad and muscled. And his eyes—dear God, his eyes!—watching her silently, sparkling sapphire blue, as he waited for her next move.

“Tell me if I go too far,” she whispered. “If it hurts too much, if you want to stop.”

His deep sapphire eyes were trusting. “I will.”

She placed her palms flat against his bare chest, firmly, and gently pushed him to sit on the bed. She was expecting his flinch by this point, but she didn’t give in to it, keeping her hands against his warm skin as he inhaled deeply. When he had settled, she slid her palms slowly down his torso, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the tickling abrasion of his body hair. She watched his eyes as they darkened to midnight blue; she paused and then slid her hands back up his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured. “I’ve wanted to simply look at your bare body for so long.”

His mouth twisted, but he didn’t comment. He inhaled, his chest swelling and deflating beneath her palms. He was so alive, so vital, and for the moment he was all hers.

She gave a gentle shove, making him lie back on the bed.

His eyes narrowed, but he lay obediently.

She went to his chest of drawers and searched until she found his neatly folded neckcloths. She drew five out and turned back to his great bed. “When you tied me, I was forced to accept your lovemaking without giving in return. I’d like to do the same for you.”

His eyes widened, but he nodded once, firmly.

She began tying his right ankle to the post at the bottom of the bed. She finished that foot and looked at him. He was breathing faster, but his eyes were calm. She tied his other foot and both his wrists. The knots were loose, and in any case, she was fairly certain he could tear himself free from the bonds if he truly wished. But that didn’t matter. The point was merely to give him the feeling of helplessness.

And to that end, she approached the bed with the last neckcloth between her fingers.

His sapphire eyes glittered as she laid the neckcloth across them and tied it firmly to the back of his head. She brushed her fingers over his cheek. “All right?”

He cleared his throat. “Oh, yes.”

His voice sounded sensuous. Anticipatory.

She stood back and looked at her handiwork. He filled the huge bed. She’d tied his wrists to one post. His fisted hands were stretched over his head, the muscles bulging in his upper arms. The neckcloth covered his face from his brow to the middle of his nose. His lips were parted as he waited for her next move, his face turned to her as if he tracked her movements by sound. She shivered, remembering how it had felt when he blindfolded her—her senses primed by the dark. His broad chest heaved. His penis lay thick and ruddy against the paler skin of his flat belly.

Dear God, she was growing wet merely looking at him. For the first time in her life, she welcomed her own arousal. She half closed her eyes, glorying in the sensation of her heavy breasts, of her thighs rubbing together. This was who she was, whether she liked it or not, a woman who wanted and needed sex. Who loved sex. And tonight she would use that part of herself—the part she’d always despised—to heal this man she loved.

Quietly, she removed her clothing, bodice, stays, dress, underskirts, stockings, and shoes. When she took off her chemise, his nostrils flared. Could he scent her arousal? She could smell it herself, faint and tangy. She would usually be wildly embarrassed at her own body’s scent and moisture, but she willed the embarrassment away.

She needed to be bold and without fear to do this.

For a moment, she stood by the bed, not touching him, not moving, merely breathing in and out, feeling her own body, watching his. Then she touched one finger to his nipple—as he had once done to her. His chest heaved at the touch, but he made no sound.