One Good Earl Deserves a Lover
Page 68

She stilled, her hand halfway to her face. “But—”
“Leave them.”
“They’re not—” she began. They’re not smoldering. They’re not seductive.
“They’re perfect.” He did not move toward her, instead leaning against the heavy ebony desk, extending one long leg in front of him and raising the other knee, propping his arm on it as he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. “Lean back.”
“I’m quite comfortable,” she said quickly.
One ginger brow rose. “Lean back anyway.”
She retreated on the chair until she felt the soft leather back against her skin. He hadn’t stopped watching her, eyes narrowed, taking in every bit of her, every movement.
“Relax,” he said
She took a deep breath and exhaled, attempting to follow instructions. “It isn’t easy.”
The smile again. “I know.” There was a long moment of silence, and he said, “You’re very beautiful.”
She flushed. “I’m not.” He did not reply. She filled the silence with, “These underclothes are quite old. They were not meant to be . . .” She trailed off as his gaze flickered to the edge of her corset, suddenly tighter. “ . . . seen.”
“I’m not talking about the clothes,” he said, low and dark. “I’m talking about you. All that skin you want me to touch.”
She closed her eyes at the words, mortification and something much more dangerous coursing through her.
He didn’t stop talking. “I’m talking about your lovely long arms and your perfectly shaped legs . . . I find I am quite jealous of those stockings for knowing the feel of you, the warmth of you.” She shifted, unable to keep still beneath the onslaught of his words. “I’m talking about that corset that hugs you where you are lovely and soft . . . is it uncomfortable?”
She hesitated. “Not usually.”
“And now?” She heard the knowledge in the question.
She nodded once. “It’s rather—constricting.”
He tutted once, and she opened her eyes, instantly meeting his, hot and focused on her. “Poor Pippa. Tell me, with your knowledge of the human body, why do you think that is?”
She swallowed, tried for a deep breath. Failed. “It’s because my heart is threatening to beat out of my chest.”
The smile again. “Have you overexerted yourself?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“What, then?”
She was not a fool. He was pushing her. Attempting to see how far she would go. She told the truth. “I think it is you.”
He closed his eyes then, hands fisting again, and pressed his head back against the side of the desk, exposing the long column of his neck and his tightly clenched jaw. Her mouth went dry at the movement, at the way the tendons there bunched and rippled, and she was quite desperate to touch him.
When he returned his gaze to hers, there was something wild in those pewter depths . . . something she was at once consumed and terrified by. “You shouldn’t be so quick with the truth,” he said.
“Why?”
“It gives me too much control.”
“I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.” He leaned forward, bracing his arm against his raised knee. “You are not safe with me.”
She had never once felt unsafe with him. “I don’t think that’s correct.”
He laughed, low and dark, and the sound rippled through her, a wave of pleasure and temptation. “You have no idea what I could do to you, Philippa Marbury. The ways I could touch you. The wonders I could show you. I could ruin you without thought, sink with you into the depths of sin and not once regret it. I could lead you right into temptation and never ever look back.”
The words stole her breath. She wanted it. Every bit of it. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but no sound would come.
“You see? I’ve shocked you.”
She shook her head. “I have shocked myself.” His gaze turned curious, and she added, “Because I find that I would like to experience those things.”
There was a long moment of silence, in which she willed him to move, to come to her. To touch her. To show her.
“Show me,” he said, the words seeming to come from her thoughts.
Startled, she said, “I—I beg your pardon?”
“Before, you told me that you wished I would touch you. Show me where.”
She couldn’t. But her hand was already moving, already trailing up the bones of her corset to the place where silk met skin. The edge of the stays was lower than the line of the dress had been, mere centimeters from—
“Your br**sts?”
She flushed at the words. “Yes.”
“Tell me how they feel.”
She closed her eyes, focused on the question. On the answer. “Full. Tight.”
“Do they ache?”
So much. “Yes.”
“Touch them.” Her eyes flew open, captured instantly by his. “Show me how you wish I would touch you.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“But why not you? Your hands are here . . . you are here.”
His gaze darkened, and a muscle leapt in his jaw. “This is all there is, Pippa. I won’t touch you. I won’t ruin you.”
Obstinate man. She was aching and frustrated, could he not see that? “I’m ruined, whether you touch me or not.”
“No. If I don’t touch you, you’re safe.”
“And if I don’t wish to be safe?”