Heat blossomed, spread beneath their skins, pooled low, then coalesced. Tightened. Throbbed.
Alicia opened her senses, tried for the first time to deliberately explore the effect of each touch, each caress. Whenever she tried to cling to control, she was swept away, so instead she went forward of her own accord, eyes open, senses aware, ready to learn, to see, to know. To, perhaps, understand what this was, what fed the power he could so easily conjure between them.
And learn to manage it herself.
As he did.
The kiss lengthened, deepened, yet not once did his control even quiver. He knew what he was doing, scripted and directed their play… this time she participated without hestitation, eagerly, determinedly following his lead. Waiting to see where it led.
She was trapped in his arms, locked against him, flagrantly molded to him when he finally raised his head. He looked down at her face. She could feel their mutual need, a well-stoked furnace seething between them.
He eased his hold on her, held her until she was steady on her feet. His eyes were dark as they held hers, yet she could feel the heat in his gaze.
“Open your bodice for me.”
The words were gravelly, deep, and dark. She held his gaze for an instant, then calmly looked down. Lifting her hands, she slipped the tiny pearl buttons free.
She felt him exhale. His arms fell from her. He looked around, then stepped back and lifted the holland cover from a large shape, revealing a big, well-padded armchair. It was set facing the windows so any occupant could enjoy the view.
Dropping the dust sheet to the floor, he looked at her. Met her gaze as she slipped the last button free.
He reached for her, still moving with that measured grace that only heightened her expectations, that gave time for anticipation to well before she felt the next touch as he drew her to stand before him.
She watched him watching her as his hands rose and closed on her shoulders. He pushed the gown down, inch by inch steadily slipped the sleeves down. Without waiting for any instruction, she lifted her arms from the narrow sleeves, then, emboldened, draped them about his shoulders and stepped closer.
Saw the dark flare in his eyes as she did. Felt his hands tense on the folds of silk at her waist, then, holding her gaze, he slowly slid his hands down, tracing the curve of her hips, sliding her gown over them until, with a soft swoosh, it fell to the floor.
She caught her breath, felt the air on her skin, felt panic rise—
He circled her waist, drew her against him, flush against his hard body, and kissed her. Not ravenously but forcefully,
then he lifted his head. “Slowly. One step more.” He lifted his lids, met her gaze. “Trust me. It’ll be as you wish.” His gaze dropped to her lips; he lowered his head. “And all you deserve.”
The promise feathered over her lips. Then he kissed her.
She stood locked against him in a dark, deserted room clad only in her chemise and her even finer silk stockings. If she wished, she could retreat—she knew it—yet as he kissed her she could feel the strength of his control, could feel the tight rein he kept on his passions.
Therein lay safety.
Nothing ventured, nothing learned. And she had to learn more. At least his next step, so she could predict the one after.
Tightening her arms about his neck, she kissed him back.
NINE
HER CHEMISE REACHED TO MIDNIGHT; IN THE POOR light, he wouldn’t be able to see through it. Her stockings covered her legs, the garters hidden beneath the chemise’s hem. She was clad, albeit thinly; wrapped in his arms, his lips on hers, his tongue tangling with hers, she certainly wasn’t cold.
Committed to playing her part, she set aside all maidenly reserve and gave herself up to it—to his embrace, to the slow-burning embers that glowed between them. No flames yet; he kept them dampened, but she knew the potential was there. It was a measure of his control that he could so easily hold the conflagration at bay, at a safe distance so she could feel the warmth, experience the pleasure, but not be burned by it. Not be consumed.
He held to his slow, measured, almost languid pace. The intimacy deepened; the urgency did not.
His control—the trust she placed in him—was what allowed her to stand within his arms and with simple passion kiss him back. He took her invitation as offered, savored her mouth, her lips; she in turn savored his pleasure.
When he straightened, eased his hold on her, sat in the armchair and urged her onto his lap, her confidence, her need to know, and her trust in him held firm, allowing her to sit across his hard thighs, to let him lift her, arrange her as he would. Then he drew her to him, locking her again in the circle of his arms, and kissed her. She responded willingly, eagerly, waiting to learn.
They were taking the long road; there had to be more steps before they approached the ultimate intimacy. She’d done her homework as well as she could, yet although she’d found two texts purporting to describe the physical aspects of intimacy as indulged in by blue-blooded rakes, said texts were so riddled with euphemisms she’d ended more confused than instructed.
The manuals had, however, demonstrated that the spectrum of activity was wide, that if an experienced gentleman were so inclined, there were indeed a large number of steps between a first kiss and consummation.