“Yes, but I don’t know what to wear.” She touched a rust-colored dress, then a dark blue. They were both new, bought to replace dresses ruined by ink while they were printing Fifty Ways to Sin in the cellar, but suddenly Bathsheba thought them both old and tired. Or perhaps she was the problem, too plain and dull to look attractive in anything. She sighed. This should not matter to her. Liam knew perfectly well that she was plain and unfashionable when he agreed to this.
“Where are you going?”
“Oh—a dinner party,” she said, blushing at the lie. “But don’t tell Mr. Crawford,” she added quickly. “It’s a philosophical society and my brother doesn’t hold with such things.” Fortunately Danny was accustomed to spending Friday evenings at the local pub, so she wouldn’t have to lie to him directly.
“Then you want to look lovely.” Mary opened the wardrobe doors wider and pulled out a dress. “This one is handsome.”
Bathsheba laughed in surprise. “It’s several years old!” It had once been her favorite, but now was hopelessly out of fashion.
Mary shook out the sage green skirt, spreading it out for examination. “It’s still in fine condition, and it suits you, ma’am.” She held it up. “It looks like it will fit.”
Dubiously, Bathsheba considered it. “You think so?” It was a simple round gown, at least ten years old. She remembered wearing it before her parents’ deaths, when she’d been young and hopeful. Surely such a gown would look ridiculous on a woman of her age. Aside from some white embroidery around the sleeves and bodice, it was unadorned.
“We’ll add a ribbon for a sash. With a necklace, you’ll be quite lovely, ma’am.” Mary’s round face shone eagerly, and Bathsheba found herself agreeing to try it.
Even after discovering it still fit—one benefit to being poor was that she hadn’t put on much weight—and even after Mary produced a long black ribbon sash that lent a sophisticated air to the ensemble, Bathsheba fidgeted. Mary rolled her hair into a simple chignon and pinned it at the nape of her neck, softer than her usual scraped-back style. Even to Bathsheba’s critical eyes, she looked better than usual, but part of her recoiled from it. This wasn’t a romantic assignation with Liam, it was a business meeting.
During which she expected to end up naked and shuddering in sensual release.
This time the ride in the carriage seemed shorter than before. When she stepped down, her hands were just as shaky as the first time, and the fact that Liam stood in the doorway waiting, just as before, made her somehow feel gauche and shy.
Things improved when she took off her cloak. The expression on his face said she’d been right to trust Mary. “Much better,” he said with approval.
“It’s old,” she said for no reason.
“But still more appealing than the brown. Come.” He led the way to another room, a library where a fire burned against the chill of the evening and two glasses of wine stood on the table. This time he closed the door. “No draughts,” he said with a slight smile, and Bathsheba flushed scarlet.
“Any regrets?” He handed her a glass of the wine, and she took a nervous sip. “I am open to any critique, now that you’ve had a few days to reflect upon lesson one.”
“No. No regrets.” She twisted the glass in her hands. “You?”
He laughed. “None at all.”
That buoyed her courage a little. “Then shall we begin?”
“Drink some wine,” he said with amusement. “I think you’ll be glad later.”
What did that mean? Her fevered imagination bolted like a startled horse, rampaging through various erotic visions. Her knees started to quake, and her heart banged inside her chest, and she gulped down some wine.
“Is this your house?” she asked, trying to distract herself from anticipation of what lay ahead.
Liam hesitated. “It is.”
“It’s quite handsome,” she said truthfully. “And so pleasantly removed from London.”
“That was crucial.” A wry smile crossed his face as he glanced around the room. “It’s not widely known, so it’s quite private.”
Bathsheba nodded, drinking again. She understood what he was saying, both assuring her of discretion and urging her to keep it. “Good.” Her glass was almost empty. “Should I take off my dress now?”
His gaze slithered over her. “Take it off or leave it on, as you wish.”
“Oh?” She almost choked on the last mouthful of wine. “We won’t—? That is, aren’t you—?”
He took the glass out of her limp fingers. “Tonight you’re going to undress me. If you also wish to disrobe…” He flashed his lazy smile. “I will not object.”
Oh dear Lord. The thought of Liam, naked, sent her pulse leaping so hard, she thought she might faint. “That is not what I asked for,” she blurted out.
“Seduction goes both ways,” he countered. “At least, it should.” He folded back one shirt cuff and undid it, then undid the other one. He dropped the studs on the mantel. “Or do you find it unappealing?”
No. She found the idea dangerously, lusciously appealing, and she feared the actual experience of it would leave her a lunatic, mad with lust for him. “Don’t be silly,” she said brusquely. “You’re the bloody expert, I’ll follow your recommendation.”
He was still smiling, the rotter. Bathsheba vowed to take that smile off his face. “Very well. Undress me—but leisurely. As you imagine a woman would undress her lover.”
If I could make myself your lover, I would, she thought. “And I keep all my clothes on?”
“As many as you wish,” he agreed.
She reflected a moment. “Are there any benefits to disrobing?”
His eyes gleamed. “By all means, bare anything you wish to offer up for my enjoyment.”
The thought of lesson one being repeated while he was as naked as she was blazed across her mind. His hands on her bare flesh felt incredible; she was dying to feel his skin. “Very well,” she said, and untied her sash. She removed her dress and petticoat, but paused after laying them aside. “That’s enough for now,” she announced, then cringed.
He only smiled at her nerves. “Now my clothes,” he prompted. He wore a banyan over trousers and shirt, no jacket or waistcoat or even boots; he wore slippers on his bare feet. Bathsheba pushed the banyan down his shoulders, then tugged at his cravat.
“Gently,” he murmured. “And try not to look so grim as you do it.”
Her hands paused. “I’ve never done this before,” she said tartly. “Perhaps you should describe the process before I attempt it.”
“Imagine yourself Lady Constance,” he said after a moment. “Finally alone with the man you desire. You’re anxious to strip him to your gaze, eager to marvel at his body—but patient enough to savor each moment of the unwrapping. You want your lover to take his time with your pleasure; take your time with his. Explore at will.”
Explore. He was giving her carte blanche with his body. A rapid pulse of excitement throbbed through her, in her belly and lower. She untied his cravat with steady hands, although she avoided his gaze. It was strange enough to be undressing him without gazing into his eyes the whole while. That felt too lover-like, too intimate. They were not lovers, this was not true intimacy, and she didn’t want to take one step down the path toward letting herself think it was.
The shirt buttons came loose with a flick of her fingers; she gathered the fabric at his waist and pushed upward until his bare abdomen was beneath her hands.
And oh—she almost forgot herself. Bathsheba pushed the shirt up and up, over his head until he pulled out his arms and she let it drop to the floor. He was solid and well-muscled, with a light mat of dark hair covering his upper chest and narrowing down his stomach. Bathsheba had seen naked statues in museums, and she had cared for her brother in his illness. Liam left them all in the shade and took her breath away.
“Explore,” he reminded her, and without thinking she plowed her fingers through the hair on his chest. It was soft but crisp
, not thick but evenly spread, and she stepped closer, fascinated by the texture.
“May I put my mouth on you?”
His stomach flinched. “Yes.” Bathsheba leaned forward and touched her tongue to his small, flat nipple. Liam’s abdomen flexed again, but he didn’t protest. She gave a gentle pull with her teeth, then sucked it between her lips as he had done to her. The flesh grew ripe and hard against her tongue, and when she drew back, she noticed his other nipple was hard as well, standing out from the sprinkling of dark hair. She stroked her thumb over it, then pinched it lightly.
“Do you like that?” She glanced up at him.
His gray eyes were hooded. “Can’t you tell?”
She blushed. “I didn’t know…”
“That it would be the same for a man as for a woman?” His knowing little smile was back. “It is.”
Annoyed, she pressed her lips to his skin, pulling the hard little nub tight against her teeth. His breath hissed, and when she peeked at his face, his eyes had grown dark and focused on her. Her hands wandered freely, exploring the firmness of his muscles, marveling at how warm he was, how large, how male. Boldly she undid the buttons on his trousers, and pushed the fabric down. Without a word he kicked off his slippers and stepped out of the garment, and let her strip down his drawers.
For the rest of her days, Bathsheba would remember the moment. Tall, dark, unspeakably handsome, he stood before her completely unabashed by his nudity or rampant arousal. His arms flexed slightly as she stared, gorging her eyes on the sight. His hair fell around his face, lending him a rather savage air as he gazed at her.
“May I?” Her question came out husky with desire. She gestured toward his erection, jutting thick and long from his groin.
“As you wish,” he said in a deep growl, and she felt a surge of elation at the hunger in his voice.
She ran her fingers down his stomach, feeling a small thrill at the way it contracted, and into the thatch of dark hair. His body was so much harder than hers, everywhere. She explored the lean lines of his hips, and wrapped her hands around his bottom, remembering how he had handled her body so boldly and possessively. But she didn’t touch his erection; she was trying to tease him as he had teased her. Every covert glance she stole at his face, though, revealed nothing about her success. His expression was dark and fixed as he watched her with scorching intensity. Finally she gave in and stroked her palm down the length of his member.
His chest expanded. At last—a reaction. She did it again, then circled him with both hands at once. So smooth, so vital. She could almost see the blood throbbing beneath the delicate skin. She had touched a man before, but never so brazenly, never so deliberately.
Perhaps this was what he had felt last time, when he seemed to be bent on torturing her by touching her slowly and lightly when she wanted more. Feeling a little drunk, she went down on her knees and touched her tongue to him.
“Bloody—” He cut off the curse and flung out one hand to grip the mantel. His head fell back and he seemed to be struggling to breathe. A delighted smile crossed her face. She had read about this act, though had certainly never tried it, and the one invariable part of the stories was how much a man enjoyed it. According to Fifty Ways to Sin, it made a man absolutely delirious with pleasure. She took him between her lips and sucked as he had sucked on her skin.
“Bathsheba,” he gasped. “What—?”
She paused. “You said I could touch you as I wished, and put my mouth on you.”
The muscles in his arms bulged. His knuckles grew white where he held the mantel. “Yes,” he said after a moment, his voice tight. “Yes, I—I did say that. I simply didn’t expect…” His words choked off as she repeated her earlier action.
Unfortunately the description she’d read had been a little lacking in specifics. Driven by the greedy rapture in Liam’s face, she played at it for a few minutes, but soon ran out of ideas. Suck more? Her jaw was beginning to cramp. Lick more? He reacted less to that. And the deepest darkest secret in her breast was that she wanted to induce a reaction from him. A reaction that would leave him dazed with wonder and filled with growing joy that she was not merely Bathsheba, the woman who wrote the naughty stories that made money for him, but Bathsheba, a woman whose passionate hopes and dreams matched his own. It would take so little for her to fall helplessly in love with him, and for a moment the longing for any sign at all that he might look fondly on her was overpowering.
Sense resurfaced quickly, thank heaven. He was not going to fall in love with her, and therefore she must do everything in her power to guard against falling in love with him. She rose from her knees and resumed touching him everywhere but there, where he was still glistening wet from her mouth.
Some of the tension drained from his body as well. His breathing grew deep and even again, although he didn’t release the mantel until she asked, “What now?”
A feral smile. “Explored to your satisfaction?”
I could never get enough of you. “For now,” she said.
“Good.” He led her to the chaise, and told her to sit. Bathsheba perched on the edge, but he knelt, picked up her foot, and spread her legs until she was straddling the chaise. “Lie back,” he said, holding her knees in place.
She eased backward onto the pile of pillows, feeling more exposed than ever even though she still wore her stays and chemise, which she tried to push discreetly down to cover herself. But Liam brushed her hands aside and folded the chemise back until she was naked to the waist.
And then he sat back and stared at her nether regions. Even though he’d touched her there last time, Bathsheba blushed fiery red.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured. “You’re very pretty here.” His knuckles brushed the springy curls.
“Like all your other lovers?” She stared at the ceiling, trying not to feel like an idiot.
“You keep mentioning them. Stop.”
“This is all new to me,” she flared out, “but not to you!”
He paused. “It is new,” he said. “You are new.”
She realized what he was going to do a moment before he lowered his head. Her stomach seized, almost cramping with excitement and anxiety as he kissed the inside of her thigh. Lady Constance wrote of this—oral pleasure—in rhapsodic terms. Bathsheba squeezed her eyes shut, hardly breathing as he licked his way up her thigh, nibbling once or twice. He laid his palm on her mound, making her jump, and then he pushed back the curls and laid his lips right against the center of pulsing want.
Bathsheba’s back arched; her mouth fell open. Liam’s hand on her pelvis pushed her back down, wide open to his questing tongue. Softer, wetter, hotter than his fingers, he explored as if he meant to take all night. Shaking from the raw intimacy of it, desperate for him to do more, she writhed and rocked on the chaise.
He raised his head and waited until she managed to open her eyes and look at him. “You like this,” he whispered. She gave a tiny nod. “So do I.” He grinned. “You taste sweet.” He hooked both hands over her thighs, pushing them even wider apart, and lowered his mouth—teasing no longer, but insistent and demanding.
Later Bathsheba thought she might have clawed rents in the upholstery of the chaise. Liam suckled on her, refusing to let her retreat from his most wicked kiss. When she thought she would faint from the intensity of it, he would relent, his tongue turning soft and gentle, but only for a moment. It seemed as if her every muscle was drawn up tight and hard, and then he plunged his fingers inside her, as thick and hard as last time. Bathsheba screamed as the pleasure crested, swamping her.
As if from a distance she heard him swear under his breath, then he rose up over her, shoving her shift aside. He planted his hands beside her shoulders and let his weight fall on her. His eyes glowed in the firelight as he thrust his hips, grinding his rigid erection against her belly. Some primal instinct made her push her hips upward into his, and his head fell back. Two, three, five thrusts later he shuddered, and spilled himself on h
er skin.
Chapter Seven
For a long minute neither moved. Liam’s arms were slick with perspiration, braced beside her. Her own arms were clasped around his waist, holding him to her, and one of her legs had got hooked around his. Bathsheba felt wrung out and limp, unable to move, but also uninterested in changing her situation. She’d suspected last time that he had found his own release, but this time there was no doubt. Something deep inside her purred in satisfaction; he was as aroused by this as she was.
Of course, that might not be due to her particular person; any female body might do the same. Bathsheba could not stop herself from hoping it was the former, even slightly, as she told herself it was more likely the latter. Liam was a handsome man, worldly and wicked. He hadn’t had one thought of doing this with her until she badgered him into it.
“So,” she said breathlessly, to drive those thoughts away, “that was lesson two, I take it.”
He raised his head. “Yes.” And he grinned, so joyfully she had the mad thought that he might kiss her. His lips were only a few inches from hers, and her chin even tipped upward, unconsciously rising to meet him because the only way this evening could improve was if he did kiss her—everything else was mere physical release, but a kiss would mean honest affection—
“I’ll ring for the carriage.” He ran one fingertip down her cheek, then pushed himself up and off her. He fetched a handkerchief and gently wiped her belly clean. Shrugging into his banyan, he walked out of the room.
Stupid girl, she chided herself, sitting up and touching her hair, now a wild mess. When would she stop hoping? Perhaps never, her foolish heart whimpered. With a sigh she got up and collected her clothes.
By the time he returned she was dressed and had let down her hair, for Mary’s chignon was ruined beyond repair. Without a word he handed her the comb, and she twisted up her hair into its usual simple knot. When she turned from the mirror, he had poured more wine and was watching her from across the room. It did terrible things to her composure when he did that. She wasn’t used to people watching her, for one thing, but especially not Liam watching her with his all-knowing eyes, perhaps picturing how she looked on her knees before him. Or how she looked writhing like a wanton while he drove her mad with his mouth. Or how she looked right now, plain and drab and desperate, like a woman who couldn’t attract a lover in the usual way, but had to argue a man into it.
The Secret of My Seduction (Scandals Book 7) Page 5
