One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“May I change in front of the fire? I don’t think I can bear to walk away from it.”

“Of course.” Of course, she should have the chance to feel the flames glow against her bare skin. To watch the fire lick warm color into her cool flesh. He couldn’t deny her that.

“All right, I think I’m warm enough to dare it.” She set down her cup, gave him one last smile, and turned her back.

Lancaster stared at her dress, at the long seam that hid the hooks of her gown. He curled his fingers tighter around the cup. Cynthia dipped her head impatiently to the side.

“Right then,” he murmured. As he placed the cup carefully on the table, it was as if he watched someone else. Some other man reached forward and eased his fingers beneath the back of her gown. Some dispassionate gentleman unfastened the first hook and felt his knuckles rub her skin.

Cynthia tilted her head forward to give him more access. Soft tendrils of her hair dragged over the back of his hand. He undid the second hook and the third. The material began to part.

When the top of her corset was exposed, Lancaster became part of his body again in a terrifying rush of sensation. His cock was already swelling. The scent of her hair filled his throat. Her skin slid against his fingers, and her spine pressed into his hand every time she drew a breath.

His hands worked their way down the hooks without his permission. When the dress began to gape, Cynthia twisted and wiggled until she freed her arms from the clinging wool. Suddenly there was a whole landscape of skin before him. Her flat shoulder blades. The arch of her neck. Her shoulders curving down to bare arms. Gooseflesh dotted her skin, then spread to every exposed inch.

Lancaster worked faster. Within seconds, the dress fell to the floor in a sodden heap.

Cynthia rolled her shoulders, then twisted her one thin petticoat around to untie it. The damp petticoat was nearly transparent, and once it slipped to the floor, he saw that her chemise was damp as well.

The skin of her bottom showed pale pink past the thin white fabric. Her legs were bare beneath it. She must have left her stockings to dry by the hearth downstairs.

“Nick,” she said, turning half toward him with an exasperated eye. “The corset now?”

“Yes,” he said, “Of course.” Did she not notice the strained rasp in his voice? Apparently not, as she bounced a little on the balls of her feet and rolled her eyes.

That tiny bounce drew his attention back to her corset. Not the fashion of the thing, which was plain and clearly well-used. But the fit.

Perhaps it had been made for someone else. Or perhaps purchased years before. Regardless, it no longer fit. Her breasts spilled above the top, nearly flattened to her chest by the tight edge.

“Turn around then,” he murmured, and reached for the ties.

His fingers shook against the ivory ribbons. When he tugged one free, he thought perhaps the whole contraption would part on her next breath, but it stayed tight. He had no choice but to slide his thick fingers along her spine and work the laces loose.

A small groan vibrated from her ribs to his hand. “That feels good.”

Yes, it felt good. Her skin was hot here. He slid one slow hand up to her shoulder to hold her steady while he tugged, and then he closed his eyes and imagined holding her steady for another reason.

Eventually, the corset was loose enough, he supposed, because Cyn began to twist and wiggle, working it down over her hips. He let his hand linger on her shoulder as long as he could, then slid it down her arm, a marvel of cool silk flesh.

She shivered and stepped out of the corset. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” His words came out a whisper.

“May I borrow a blanket?”

Cynthia shook out her dress as he opened the chest at the foot of his bed and retrieved a blanket of fine red wool. He was sorry to be done with his task, and thankful as hell that she was about to wrap herself up and leave.

He needed her so badly, and it was wrong to want her.

“Here—” he started as he turned to offer the blanket. But the sight of Cynthia stopped him cold.

The nightdress she wore to bed was sturdy and far too large to reveal even a hint of the body beneath. But her shift…her shift was a thin veil. Worn to a sheen, damp from the rain, it clung to her breasts and floated down to flirt with her hips. Her nipples were tight pink buds pressed against the sheer fabric, her breasts shockingly full and round.

Cynthia Merrithorpe was a sensual

dream.

As if she realized the strength of his thoughts, Cyn crossed her arms over her chest. “Can I have it or did you decide to keep it for yourself?”