To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)
They moved through the dark house in silence. He retained his hold on her wrist. When they reached the door to her room, he halted her. Reaching past her, he closed his hand about the doorknob, then, leaning close, his voice low and dark—that of the dark stranger—said, “Once we go through the door, I’m going to direct you in a fan
tasy. You’ll do exactly as I say, without hesitation. Although I’ll be with you—and you’ll know that—the fantasy starts here. You’ve come upstairs late, the rest of the household are long asleep. You go into your room—and as far as you know, you’re alone.”
On the last word, he set the door swinging wide. “Go in.”
She stepped across the threshold into his fantasy, and his fingers slid from her wrist.
She took one step and felt him like a shadow moving into the room behind her. Turning, she saw the door standing open; stepping back, she shut it.
“You believe you’re alone in your room. You start to undress, thinking of your lover.”
He was just another shadow at the periphery of her vision, moving outside the circle of light cast by the candelabra she’d left burning on her dressing table. She moved to the table, sat, and unpinned her hair. Picking up her brush, she ran it through the heavy tresses.
“You think of your lover—what he would see if he were here. What he would be thinking.”
She heard the armchair shift but didn’t look that way. Something else moved on the floor. She finished brushing her hair, then stood, rounded her dressing stool, and saw that he’d shifted the armchair back so it stood to one side and a little behind the cheval mirror he’d moved out into the room.
He was sitting in the armchair, booted foot on one knee, elbow on the chair arm. Watching her.
She reached for her laces, saw her reflection in the mirror. Her bodice was tight; she breathed a sigh of relief when the laces unraveled and freed her aching flesh.
“You imagine your lover is here, with you. Watching you undress.”
That wasn’t difficult; she could feel his gaze, already burning, on her. And knew the sensation would only grow hotter.
“You disrobe as you imagine you would to tantalize him.”
Lids at half-mast, she held up her bodice with both hands beneath her breasts and drifted across the floor until she stood directly before the mirror, far enough back so that she could see her reflection from her head to her toes. She studied what she saw—the rather tall, slender woman with the mahogany-red hair, skin pale where the candlelight reached it, dappled in mystery down her other side. Slowly smoothing her hands down over her body, she inched the gown to her waist, then steadily lower until her palms brushed her thighs, then she let the gown go and watched in the mirror as it slid, susurrating to the floor.
She drew a deep breath, filled her lungs, watched her breasts rise above the scooped neckline of her chemise. It was fastened with tiny buttons down the front; she set her fingers to them and slowly, steadily, slid them free—until the chemise gaped open to her waist, exposing the inner swells of her breasts and the shadowy valley between.
Head tilting, she considered her reflection, studied her face, the expression of sensuality that seemed to be slowly investing her features. She let her gaze roam slowly down. Her garters flirted with the hem of her chemise.
She glanced to where the dressing stool stood, then reached out and hooked it closer so one corner was before her. Lifting her right leg, she placed her foot, still in her low-heeled dancing pump, on the stool, then with both hands slid her garter—slowly—down her leg, taking her silk stocking with it, until at the last she removed shoe, garter, and stocking in one smooth movement.
The chair creaked as he shifted. Hiding a smile, she dealt with her other garter, stocking, and shoe in the same way, then pushed the stool away and straightened.
Her expression had subtly altered, grown more sultry, her lids heavier, her lips fuller. One knee slightly bent, she toyed with the open edges of the chemise, then boldy reached down, grasped the hem, and, still slowly, drew the garment off over her head….
Her gaze locked on the mirror. Hand extended, she froze—not from fear of any kind but from fascination. He’d seen her naked any number of times, but she hadn’t—she’d never had any real idea of what he saw, how she looked to his eyes.
What she saw in the mirror…
Was that truly her? She could feel his gaze, scorching and intense, wholly fixed. Wholly caught. Did she, her body, truly have that much power?
Then he spoke and she had her answer; his voice had deepened further, taking on the gravelly, rasping tone she now recognized as betokening desire. “Cup your breasts—caress them as he would.”
Faintly shocked at the suggestion, she did as he said, and shuddered.
“Close your eyes.”
She did, her fingers still shifting, stroking satin skin.
“Imagine how it would feel if he were with you.” A silent pause, then she sensed him behind her. “Imagine his hands on your skin.”
Imagination was heightened by sensation, merged with it seamlessly. His hands roved her body freely, but he knew her now, so well that his hands followed her script without direction. He touched her as she wished to be touched, as she dreamed of him touching her, yet not a word was spoken, not a glance exchanged.
She stood before him, before the mirror, naked, eyes closed, and he gave expression to her dreams, converted them to reality.