Eleanor's hands trembled as she reached for fresh bandaging. "Do you need a minute to... to compose yourself?"
"No." His voice was rough. "I don't think a minute would help. Or an hour. Not with you here, looking like that."
Eleanor should have left, should have fled to her room. But instead, she found herself transfixed by his obvious desire, by the hunger in his eyes, by the clear evidence that he was, quite literally, affected by her presence.
He wanted her. Her body, at least. Perhaps not her heart or her companionship or her forgiveness. But this, this physical response, was undeniable.
And after two years of feeling invisible, unwanted, rejected, the power of it was intoxicating.
Eleanor looked at his face—at the flush on his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands gripped the sheets—and felt something shift inside her.
"I should finish your dressing," she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
"Yes." Aubrey's voice was strained. "You should."
Eleanor moved the sheet aside—more than necessary, letting it fall lower than strictly required for medical purposes. She let her fingers trail along his uninjured thigh as she reached for the salve.
Aubrey made a choked sound. Eleanor’s lips curved into a small smile. She let her hand rest on his thigh—warm, solid, the muscle tense beneath her palm—her hand so close to his member.
"Does this hurt?" She brushed the back of her hand lightly against his balls.
"No." The word came out as almost a groan.
She moved her hand slightly closer, and “accidentally” stroked his shaft with her hand, watching his face. "Oh, my. How careless of me."
Aubrey's eyes had darkened to almost midnight blue, his breathing harsh. "You know exactly what you're doing."
"You give me too much credit, my lord." Eleanor applied the salve on his ballocks using deliberately slow strokes, her fingers brushing other areas that had nothing to do with his injuries. "What I know, I only know in theory."
She remembered how he had reacted before to her proximity, her touch, the sight of her hair loose. She understood now, with crystal clarity, that she had power here. Power over this man whom she had loved for so many years.
And the temptation to wield that power was almost overwhelming.
"Eleanor." His voice was desperate now. "You need to stop. You need to—"
"Hold still," she murmured, leaning closer than necessary, letting her breath ghost across his skin. "I'm almostfinished."
She worked with agonising slowness, touching everywhere except where his body clearly wanted her to touch, drawing out the torture with each careful movement.
When she finally pulled back, applying the bandage with brisk efficiency, Aubrey was breathing like he'd run a race. His arousal had been growing, peaking out of his nightshirt and exposing itself fully. It was as magnificent as the man himself, and Eleanor felt a surge of feminine satisfaction so intense it nearly made her dizzy. Not to mention the warm moisture between her legs.
"There," she said, her voice perhaps slightly breathless. "All done. Make sure to keep the dressing dry, my lord."
She straightened out his nightshirt and pulled the counterpane over him before moving toward the door, ignoring his grunts and low murmuring.
"My darling wife."
His words stopped her abruptly. She did not turn around.
"Whatever lessons you’ve been learning theoretically," Aubrey said, and she could hear the smile in his voice despite the strain, "keep learning them. The education has been… effective."
"Thank you," Eleanor replied, her voice hoarse. "Good afternoon, my lord. Try to rest. I'm sure your... discomfort... will subside eventually."
She left before he could respond, closing the door firmly behind her.
Only when she was safely in the corridor did she let herself lean against the wall, her heart racing, her face flushed, a smile playing at her lips that she couldn't quite suppress.
He had been unable to hide his desire even before she’d touched him. He had looked at her with hunger and desperation and need.
