The Heiress Effect
Page 72

He licked his lips. “I had every intention of being a gentleman. Of sleeping on the floor, or…or something.”
“Is that what a gentleman would do?” Jane asked.
“Probably.”
“Then gentlemen are idiots.”
He laughed. “Jane. God. You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”
She took a step closer. “I scarcely have the wherewithal to be brave about this.” Another step, until she was close enough to set her hands on his chest.
“Do you know what to expect?”
“Only in the vaguest terms. The specifics…” She reached out and gently, very gently, took hold of his cravat. “The specifics,” she repeated, “I’m looking forward to discovering.”
“Then discover.”
She undid his cravat, winding the fabric from around his neck.
“See?” She looked up. “I didn’t know that—the look of your throat.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss in the hollow there. The points of his shirt brushed wetly against her cheeks.
“Jane. You’re killing me.”
She hadn’t understood what to do until she heard his voice—that hard rasp, so clearly indicating he was on the edge of his control. This, this was what she wanted. To kill him with every brush of her fingers, and to have him love it.
She pushed back the collar of his still sodden coat; he shrugged his shoulders, relinquishing it to her.
She’d seen men in their shirtsleeves before, but never like this. Not with the fabric practically translucent from rain, outlining the smooth curve of bicep and tricep. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat, slowly reveling in the glimpses she caught through the fabric—the slim tapering of his waist, the hard feel of his abdomen when she brushed her hand against the fabric of his shirt.
He hadn’t moved, except to assist her in removing items. She was glad of it. He stood still, as if he understood that she needed to uncover him, little by little. To get used to the idea of what would happen. To let her touch before he touched her back.
The shirt proved more complicated. He had little silver studs at the cuff, and it took her some time to untangle the wet mass from his person, even though he gave her a little help. But when she had it off him…
Just the hint of his flesh through the shirt had made her mouth dry. The reality of him—of all that taut muscle, of the arrow of hair tracing down from his navel, the darker nubs of his ni**les…
She reached out and set her hand on his skin.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re still wet. Of course you’re still wet. And cold.” She took the towel he’d abandoned and dabbed at his shoulders. His arms. Feeling it all as she went, that hard, smooth body of his, dangerously curved and yet waiting motionless. Allowing her to explore her fill of him. She dried off his back and addressed herself to his front.
He hissed as she rubbed his abdomen.
“Did that hurt?”
“On the contrary. It felt rather good.” He looked her in the eyes. “Touch me there again.”
He hadn’t moved, not one inch, but he wasn’t letting go of control. His skin was warming under her caresses, the color changing from chalk to a faint blush. She touched him, traced that line of hair vanishing into his trousers, felt the firm muscle tense under her fingers.
“Am I doing it right?”
“You’re doing… Yes, Jane. Keep doing that. Please.”
She ran her hand up his waist. Across his chest. When her fingers brushed his nipple, he hissed again, and she took a moment for further exploration. He responded to her touch, his flesh tightening, hardening. His breath shivered as she rolled the hard nub between her fingers, touching it the way he’d touched her earlier.
Oh, if only she’d paid better attention, cataloguing what he’d done.
What was it he’d said? That if he had her in a bed, he would…
She leaned forward and licked him.
“Oh, Jane.” His hands closed around her shoulders.
“Was that…should I…” She pulled away. “Should I stop?”
“Lick me anywhere you like.”
“Am I doing well enough?”
He took her hand in his and laid it across the damp placket of his trousers, splaying her fingers under him so she could feel the hard ridge beneath. “That’s how well you’re doing,” he told her hoarsely. “So well that the danger is that I’ll spill in my first few thrusts.”
The thought of that caught hold of her, setting her lungs on fire. “Oh?” she heard herself ask. “How do I make you do that?”
His eyes met hers, fierce and intense, and her whole body seemed to melt. “You let me have a turn.”
That sent a shot through her, a bolt of pure anticipation. He’d scarcely touched her since he’d come in the room; now his hands slid down her sides, over her hips.
He set his hands on her thighs. “Back a little,” he said, giving her the barest guiding pressure. She took two steps in reverse and felt her legs hit the bed behind her. And then he stood, lifting her chemise as he did so. It slid over her skin, over her head. He disentangled it from her arms, and let it fall on the ground. She was completely naked.
She should have felt exposed. Off-kilter. But his eyes devoured her with such heat that she felt only…powerful. Wanted. Ready.
“There,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now that… That is a good idea.” Her whole body tingled. She didn’t know what he would do—whether he would push her to the bed and sink inside her, or touch her all over, the way she’d touched him.
Instead, he tilted her head back and kissed her. It was a long, sweet kiss, a kiss that drugged her senses. A kiss that made her aware of every inch of her skin—of the fact that as they kissed, he gathered her up in his arms, pressing against her. His chest. That hard ridge beneath his trousers. His legs, still damp. He kissed her until every part of her demanded more.
Just when she was ready to scream with a frustration she didn’t understand, his hands swept up her body, cupping her br**sts. She had one brief moment to react—to feel the rough brush of his thumb across her sensitive flesh—before he bent and kissed her on her breast.
“Oliver.” Her hands closed around him. Her knees buckled. “Oliver. God. If what I did to you felt anything like that…”
“Then you’ll spend in a few strokes,” he murmured. “That’s rather the goal.”