She gripped two handfuls and with one elegant motion, had it over her head and tossed to the floor. From the waist up, she was bared to his hungry gaze. He drank in the sight of her full breasts, the rosy tips already hardened into stiff peaks.
“What now? Do you want me to touch myself again?”
Ah, hell.
She was outmaneuvering him, flanking him like an invading cavalry storming around a defenseless phalanx of infantrymen. “Yes. Cup your breasts.”
Once more, she did as he requested, her small hands holding each breast from beneath so her nipples jutted forward like offerings. He could not wait to suck them. But first, he wanted her desperate. He wanted them both desperate.
“Have I done well?” she asked, and he could discern from the smoky undertone of her voice that her desire had been heightened every bit as much as his.
“Pinch your nipples,” he ordered her instead of answering her question. The saucy minx would not get his praise just yet. She needed to wait. To learn the art of patience.
She took each nipple between her thumbs and forefingers and pinched, rolling and tugging until they were even harder, ruddy color rushing into the peaks. The sight of her standing before him, submitting to his every whim, clad in nothing more than stockings and drawers, skin flushed with the pleasure of touching herself, was enough to send another stab of need to his already engorged prick.
Their wicked games were having an effect upon her as well, for her mouth was slack, her breathing growing choppier. She did not instantly parry his demand with a question of her own.
“How does it feel?” he asked her, watching her fingers pluck and pull.
“Not as good as your mouth,” she dared to say.
His cock twitched against his trousers once more. If he did not speed up this process, he would spend before he even touched her.
“Your drawers,” he said darkly, bemused by his own lack of control where she was concerned. “Remove them.”
Gaze burning into his, she released her breasts and reached for the waistband of her drawers. One by one, she slid more buttons from their temporary homes. With a hand on either side of her full hips, she pushed at the fabric until it too vanished. Wearing only her stockings and garters, she faced him, and no woman had ever been as glorious as she was in that moment.
“Am I naked enough for you?” She was part defiant, part seductress. Like some wicked goddess come to earth to make him hers.
Leo slid a finger beneath his necktie, loosening it, before he tugged on the ends and whipped it away from his throat. Next came his jacket and waistcoat. But he ignored her question all the same, because there did not exist a world or a life within which Bridget would ever be naked enough for him. He wanted her stripped bare, physically and metaphorically, on display for him alone. Weak for him the same way he was for her.
In love. He wanted her so in love she would confess the last vestiges of her truth to him. So in love with him she would entrust him with anything: her crimes, her heart, her life. God knew he trusted her with his, even when he had no good reason to do so. Even now, when she loved him with her body, yet kept him at bay.
“On the bed,” he told her. “Now.”
She turned her back to him, and he watched her backside sway as she walked to his massive bed, using the small stool he had procured specifically for her to climb atop it. He was instantly reminded of the first night they had met, when she had led him to the library and he had trailed behind, admiring the flutter of her dove gray skirts.
Everything inside him screamed with the urge to strip the remainder of his clothes and simply join her there. To spread her pale thighs and settle himself between them, fucking them both into a sated delirium.
Control, he reminded himself.Maintain your control.
He took a deep breath and one step toward the bed. She lay reclined upon it, watching him, all those lush curves on display. He unbuttoned his shirt and tore it over his head. His breeches were next, and he did not stop until he too was divested of every stitch.
He joined her on the bed, and she reached for him.
“No.” They were playing this game by his rules. “You do not touch me unless I give you permission.”
The brilliant hue of her eyes deepened. Her tongue flitted over her full lower lip. “I want to touch you, Leo.”
“Do you trust me?” It was the second time that evening he had posed the question. But this time, it held a world of other meaning.
She hesitated, her pupils dilating. “Should I?”
“Yes. Always.” He skimmed a hand down her thigh, trailing over her calf, finding her elegant ankle bone and rubbing gentle circles over it with his thumb. “I would never hurt you, Bridget.”
“I know.”
He wasn’t certain if he believed her, but for now it was enough. It had to be enough, for it was the only admission she would give him.
