The carriage slowed. He glanced out, then set her back on the seat. The carriage halted; they straightened their clothes. She felt as if her dress was barely on, barely capable of containing her. He descended and handed her out. Head high, she preceded him into the hall. She could barely breathe. With a nod to Irving, she headed on up the stairs. Gyles paused to speak with Wallace, then followed.
His fingers twined with hers as they walked down the corridor. By unspoken agreement, they touched no more than that-didn’t dare.
“Get rid of your maid-you won’t need her tonight.”
Francesca slipped her fingers from his and opened her door while he walked on to his.
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
“Quite sure.” Francesca shooed Millie to the door. The little maid went, reluctantly closing the door behind her.
The click of the latch echoed from the other side of the room. Francesca turned; she watched as, already coatless, Gyles pushed away from the shadows cloaking the connecting door. Their gazes locked as he approached.
Closed the distance, lifted his hands to frame her face, tipped it to his, then devoured.
They’d made love so many times, yet it had never been like this. She’d never been so greedy. So determined, so demanding. She taunted, teased-wanted more. Wanted him. He’d claimed her, branded her as his so many times. Tonight it was her turn. His turn to be possessed, to be the one taken-she would settle for nothing less.
She was prepared to settle for more.
Prepared to let him take the reins at the start, to acquiesce when, with their blood already up, pounding in their veins, he roughly drew back, turned her, positioned her so, bathed in the glow of the lamps burning on her dresser and the table by the door, she stood before him, facing her reflection in the long mirror.
“Inch by slow inch.”
He’d warned her; now she watched, waited, as he unhooked her gown. His hands rose, pressing the back opening of the gown wide, then sliding the silk from her shoulders. The bodice fitted her well; he peeled the fabric from her curves. Her breasts suddenly felt cool, deprived of the heated silk, covered only by her fine chemise. He knew but only smiled at her quiver, leaving the gown in folds about her waist, urging her to lift her arms free.
She did, then didn’t know what to do with her hands. Watching their reflection, she leaned her shoulders, now bare, back against his shirt-clad chest, then reached back and set her palms to his hard thighs, fingers gripping.
His expression hardened, but his gaze was fixed on her body, on her hips as he eased the gown lower. She kept expecting him to touch her, to set his hands to her chemise-clad skin to ease the nerves quivering beneath, afire with anticipation. Instead, he touched her not at all as, inch by deliberate inch, he pushed the gown lower, over her thighs.
Until, with a silken swoosh, it slid to the floor.
For one instant, they both gazed at the pool of emerald about her feet. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze and took in the tableau he’d created. Her hair was still up, startlingly black against the white of his shirt, a mass of curls cascading down to just brush her shoulders. Her arms were bare; from mid-thigh, her legs were, too. In between, the ripe curves of her body were veiled and mysterious beneath her thin chemise. Her skin glowed in the lamplight, its honeyed tones definite against his shirt, soft and feminine against the black of his knee breeches.
With her hands on his thighs, balanced before him, she felt like a prize, one he’d won.
As she watched, his face hardened. His hands closed about her waist.
She lifted her arms, reached back, up, to rest her hands on his shoulders. His lips curved as he bent his head and touched his lips to her temple.
His ha
nds closed about her breasts. She gasped and arched more definitely. He kneaded knowingly, avoiding the tight peaks, then his hands drifted, wandered, curving over her hips, over her stomach. His touch was not gentle but possessive, a conqueror mapping his domain.
Watching from beneath her lashes, she deliberately shifted against him, rolling her hips against his thighs, wordlessly taunting.
He reached out, grasped the back of a nearby chair, and swung it to stand with the seat beside her.
“Take off your stockings.”
For me. The words were unsaid; their meaning hung in the air. Without hesitation, she rebalanced, kicked off her slippers, then bent one knee and placed her foot on the seat. And gave all her attention to performing the simple act of sliding her garter down her leg, then removing her silk stocking. She let her hands linger, smoothing over the sleek curves of her leg as she eased the stocking down. Then she shook out the wisp of silk, draped it over the chair back, and repeated the exercise.
Every iota of his concentration was locked on her, on her legs, on each deliberately sensuous movement of her arms and hands. She knew without looking; she could feel his desire like a warm weight on her skin.
Finally, it was done; she pushed the chair away, then straightened, leaned back against him, against his chest, against his thighs-and met his gaze in the mirror.
His face was set, the stamp of passion naked upon it. His chest swelled, then he lifted his hands to the ribbons anchoring her chemise. Two tugs and the ribbons slithered free; he stripped the chemise from her in a single stroke.
And she stood naked before him, breasts high and peaked, full and lightly rosy, her stomach taut, the curves of her hips and thighs creating a frame for the dark curls that drew his eyes. Francesca savored the moment, drank in the blank lust that, for one instant, dominated his expression, then she turned and surprised him.