“A trap?” she repeated, soft as a sigh, wiggling the comb through another section of her hair which she tossed behind her back. She adjusted, dropping her foot and leaning back against the bedpost, her body embraced tightly by the sheer fabric of her robe. “Ambrose don’t be so dramatic.”
He trailed off, his eyes falling to every detail of her that was visible through the fabric. The steam rising from the tub wasmore of a modesty screen than whatever gauzy torment she’d had that garment made from, and she very clearly knew it.
“Go on,” she pressed, “or the water will get cold.”
He shot her a look, moving to unbutton his coat and shrug out of it, turning and following suit with his waistcoat. She watched every step of the progress, completing her hair-combing in sections as he untucked his shirt and pulled it over his head.
It should have been gratifying when he heard her suck a breath in, that sharp little inhale that proved she was not as cool and unbothered as she wanted to seem as her dark eyes grazed down over his chest and along the lines of his abdomen. It wasn’t. It was only making him more suspicious.
He stood there, shirtless, kicking his shoes off, and watched his wife through narrowed eyes. “You’ve decided you wish to see the rest of me?”
“I have,” she said, raising a brow.
“And you think you shall without asking for it,” he guessed, taking a step toward her and that damned tub.
She gave him the slightest little slanting smile. “That was not what you told me I had to ask for. In fact, I believe you invited me to join all of the play that proceeds consummation at my pleasure, with no rules or restrictions to speak of.”
“Is that so?” he said, raising his own brows in answer. “Hungry for a repeat of our wedding night, then? You want me to come over there and push my hands between your legs until you’re panting again?”
She faltered. Just a tiny flicker of her expression, the slightest flash of her eyes. Then she lifted her chin. “Perhaps.”
“Maybe I’ll do it differently this time,” he continued, his voice gone darker, his skin hot and tingling. “Maybe I’ll use my tongue.”
He could see her breathing quicken, the rising and falling of her chest speeding up. He could see the flush creeping over those pretty cheeks, even if she did not move. “I would not stop you,” she said, her voice delicate as glass.
“I know you wouldn’t,” he told her, stepping around the tub and leaning down over the ottoman, pinning his arms on either side of her, his nose brushing hers. “You think you can bait me into taking what you haven’t asked for.”
“I didn’t say that,” she replied, just a whisper this time, the glass fracturing in little cracks and shivers.
He pressed his forehead into hers, his lips brushing against her own without quite taking. “You think you will drive me so completely mad with want that I’ll forget all about our little arrangement,” he told her raggedly.
Her hands came up, her fingertips traveling down the path of his stomach, curious and teasing at his waistband until his head swam.
“Would you?” she asked, soft and whisper-thin against his lips. “Would you forget?”
He closed his eyes, reminding himself to breathe as she pressed lower, her fingers exploring the length of him over the fabric of his trousers. “No,” he said through his teeth. “But if you continue pushing me, I will give you the same treatment, Vix.”
She was stroking him now, her breath coming short and fast, her eyes tilted up to meet his as she filled her hand with him. “Sametreatment?” she repeated, gasping when he groaned from what she was doing. “Do you like that, Ambrose?”
He leaned further forward, pushing his hips into her hand. “Do you know what this is like?” he rasped, his fingers digging into the ottoman cushion, his restraint straining. “Wanting you so badly and never finding release? Do you have any idea?”
“Yes,” she said. “You could take me now. You could relieve us both.”
He bit his breath off, prying a hand off the cushion and digging it into her damp hair, tilting her head back to look into his eyes. “Ask for it,” he demanded. “Tell me you want it.”
“Want what?” she whispered, squeezing him until a sound escaped his throat. “You? Is that what you want me to say? That I desire you, Ambrose?”
He stared at her, words lost in his throat, blood raging through him, demanding action while he forced himself to focus on her face, to hold himself still.
“That I want this part of you?” she continued, lowering her eyes to the ministrations of her hand. “You know that I do.”
“I need to hear you say it,” he said, a plea at this point, a desperate plea.
She flashed her teeth, almost a grimace, a warring thing within her. “And if I do?” she said, angry now, color flushing in her throat. “If I do?”
He groaned, staring down at the lush curves of her body in that filmy robe. “Say it,” he whispered, “and I will be inside you before you can finish the words.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath of air, crawling backward onto the foot of the bed, the robe pooling and sagging around her. “Your trousers,” she managed shakily. “Take them off.”
