Then her hands went up, sinuous as snakes, and she began to dance.
She moved with the fluid grace of a ballerina, but it was nothing like any ballet he’d ever seen. Her hands, her hips, the movement of her head and her eyes, glancing toward him and away—every gesture was exotically, unmistakably suggestive.
She moved about the room, but it was like the motion of a wayward breeze, advancing, then retreating. Now and again her hand went to her hair, and he caught the glint of a hairpin dropping. The devil danced in her smile and called to him from her eyes. Around him she danced, her hair tumbling loose, and he turned, mesmerized, following her.
She danced backward toward the bed and her hands glided down over her body, pausing to cup her breasts, then slid lower, her fingers skimming over her waist and belly. Further down they moved, to trace the shape of her hips and buttocks…then they moved to the front, under her belly, sliding over the triangle between her legs.
He’d bedded women, experienced and talented women, but they might have been wooden puppets compared to her.
She was all fluid carnality, shameless beyond shameless.
She caught hold of one of the carved posts at the foot of the bed and let her fingers trail over the carvings. Then she let go, to let her hand drift over the bedcover while she moved to the side of the bed.
In one easy motion she glided up and onto the bed. She settled into the middle of it on her knees. She lifted her hands above her head and pressed the palms together, like a prayer, and swayed there, her torso moving in ways the human body couldn’t possibly move.
All the while she sang in the low, lilting minor key words he couldn’t understand but whose meaning was obvious.
He’d long since forgotten about the supper he’d so carefully planned.
He’d forgotten everything in all the wide world.
He simply moved toward her, unthinkingly, because thinking wasn’t necessary even if it had been possible. She could have been Eve, apple in her hand, Eve the temptress.
She brought her hands down as far as her heart, the palms still together, the gesture as fluid as silk. Then she opened her hands and smiled and curled her two index fingers, beckoning him.
He went, moving to one side of the bed, but as soon as he placed his knee on it, she laughed, and slipped out of the bed on the other side as easily as she’d slipped onto it.
He moved away from the bed and started toward her. She darted away, laughing again.
He tried a few more times, but she danced away from him. When she leapt onto the bed again, he leapt onto it, too. She scrambled away before he could get his hands on her.
He climbed off the bed. “Zoe Octavia,” he said.
She backed away. “Lucien Charles Vincent,” she said, and in the low voice, with its shadows and soft edges, his name became unbearably intimate. She stuck out her tongue, the brat. Oh, but not a brat. She’d become a woman, and this woman was sin incarnate.
She backed toward the table—their supper—and he thought she’d stumble over it, but she only paused and took up a glass of champagne. She drank, and laughed, and the champagne dribbled down her chin and onto her breast. The moisture spread outward and downward, making the thin cloth cling to the swelling curve of her breast. He watched the bud tighten, and his mind shut down.
He strode to the table, took the glass from her hand, and set it down.
She looked up at him, letting her head fall back. Her mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile.
“You devil,” he said. Then he lifted her up and carried her to the bed and tossed her onto it.
She didn’t bounce up or try to slip away.
She lay there, looking at him while she dragged her hands through her hair, scattering what remained of the pins and letting it fall in shimmering curls about her neck and shoulders. She untied the fastening band of the wrapper and let it fall open. The firelight and candlelight danced on her skin and flashed from the great diamond on her hand.
He threw off clothes. Dressing gown. Slippers.
She stretched out her arms, reaching for him, and he forgot about the rest of his garments. He climbed onto the bed and dragged her up and into his arms and kissed her. It was the first time he’d held her since her father had appeared in the nick of time in the library. Since then he’d thought of other things, yes, but always of her, of this, as well.
He’d meant to give her a proper wedding night, slow and romantic, to make up for their hasty coupling in the carriage, but the seductive dance, her wanton ways, put paid to that fantasy.
He gave her the hot kiss she deserved, deep and thoroughly lascivious. He dragged his hands over the thin muslin, down her back to the curve of her bottom. He broke the kiss and threw her back down onto the bed, and she laughed, her eyes as dark as midnight. He drew his hands down from her shoulders to her breasts, and he filled his hands with her, soft and so warm.
She put her hands over the sweet place between her thighs. “Here,” she said. “I want you here.”
“I know where it is,” he said.
