The Sheik's Son

He almost laughed, and would have if the vision of Sophie half naked before him didn’t almost send him over the edge of actually doing what she suggested. He could imagine flinging her onto the bed and pulling up her skirts. She would probably have deliciously feminine garters with flowers holding up her stockings and he would want to see her in them and nothing else.

“What must you think of me, Mademoiselle Sophie? Do you think I’m going to ravish you whilst your grandmother, my sister and friends are downstairs?”

Sophie blushed deeply. “Of— Of course not.”

“Not that I don’t imagine pressing up your skirts to see what delicious secrets lie between your thighs,” he said lowly, pressing her against one large wooden bedpost.

“You’re indecent,” Sophie gasped.

“And you’re heavenly.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You seem to always think I’m touching you when I’m not,” Sebastian mused. “Perhaps you want my hands on you.”

Sophie’s breathing was shallow and she hated the corsets for constricting her so. Sebastian watched her breasts fall over the neckline and ached so badly to kiss her.

“No, monsieur. I don’t. What I want is for you to maintain your distance and behave properly.”

He pondered her for a moment and then spoke. “Look on the other side of the room.”

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Just do it.”

Sophie moved away from him, keeping an eye on him as she walked along the bed to the far side of the room. When she made her way to the other side of the room, which had been shielded by the four-poster bed’s canopy, she made a breathy sigh of awe.

On the far side of the room was a breathtakingly beautiful portrait with a tree in the far left side of the painting and a harbor dominating the scene, with a beautiful yellow and grey sky.

“It’s exquisite,” she said softly.

“It is,” Sebastian agreed as he joined her.

“Who painted it?”

“Claude Joseph Vernet. It is of the Rochelle Harbor,” he explained.

“It’s lovely.” She continued to stare at it. “Very lovely.”There was a minute of silence between the two of them as they enjoyed the painting.

“I think that you had the wrong impression of me, mademoiselle.” Sebastian said as she continued to take in the painting.

“Perhaps,” she admitted, embarrassed.

“And perhaps, like the time at the cricket game, you owe me something,” he told her quietly. His finger drew a line between her shoulder blades where her dress dipped. His touch made her shudder.

She shook her head. “I owe you nothing.”

“You play games and deny me but I know you want me too,” he said.

She turned to face him. “Do you want me as your mistress?” she asked boldly.

“Yes.”

Sophie caught her breath. “Then approach my father and see what he

says.”

“You’re not the mistress type. We both know that.”