Her gaze fell to his hands, holding her fingers to his mouth. “Touch.”
He hadn’t known the word could hold so much power. “Yes. Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do.” She said the words so easily, not a hesitation in sight, and Charles’s guarded, jaded heart split a little.
“Then come closer.”
She did so, following his instructions, and her knee brushed against his as she perched beside him. Such large skirts, and so many layers cinching her all inside. Still, it was not to be helped—today would not involve the removal of clothes.Thatwould not help with his intention of going slowly and not taking her virtue today. He wanted to give her time to change her mind or back out of their agreement.
“How’s this?” she asked, looking into his face steadily. Not the expression of a lover, but of a lady who knew him almost as well as she knew herself.
Somehow, he found that all the more intimate.
“Almost.” He shifted, spreading his legs a fraction, and patted his thigh. “Sit here.”
“You want me to sitonyou?”
“My dear, if you balk at this, we surely can have no reason to go any further.”
An expression of rare determination crossed her face, and she gathered her skirts, a stockinged knee briefly visible as she slid onto his lap. He felt her thighs trembling as she attempted to keep her full weight from him.
“You are concerned over nothing,” he said, putting his hands on her waist and tugging her closer. He ought to have chosen a different chair, one where her legs would dangle on either side of him, and he would not be obliged to convince her that one woman would not cause him to expire. “Allow yourself to settle fully on me, Evie. Believe me when I say I enjoy it.”
“Youenjoybeing squashed under the weight of another?”
“You are not as heavy as you think you are.” He slid his hands down to the flare of her hips, and her eyes went wide. “And yes, as it happens, I do enjoy being ‘squashed’, as you put it, under the weight of another when she happens to be female.”
Reluctantly, she allowed herself to relax a little, although he could still feel the stiffness in her body. For all she claimed she wanted to do this, he could sense her nervousness.
How best to assuage her fears?
“Put your hands on my face,” he commanded. “You should be used to touching a man.”
Her blue-grey eyes flicked to his and away, and she licked her lips as she brought her fingertips to his cheeks. Her caress, as always, was soft. Growing up as friends, he had touched her more often than he could count. She had always been more reticent; he had been the one to reach out, to take her hand or pull twigs from her hair. Once, it had occurred to him to worry that she disliked the intimacy, but then he noted the way she never pulled back from his touch the way she so often did with others.
That, among other reasons, had been why he had gone after Julian and given the boy two black eyes. Not just for the crime of kissing her,although that had been reason enough, but because he knew she would have shown him through her body, if not her words, that she disliked his hands on her. Charles had watched them interact, seen the way she’d shrunk from him. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed, either.
But he had.
He held perfectly still as her fingertips glided across his skin, letting her take her time and accustom herself to the sensations. But she did not seem to need additional time; her hands held steady as they traced his features. Eyes, nose, cheekbones, brow, then finally, lips.
“The thing you must understand,” he said, hearing the gruffness in his voice but unable to prevent it, “is that the act you’re imagining is not necessarily the primary focus of these sessions.”
A frown touched her brows. “It isn’t?”
“Often what comes before—the, ah, preparatory work, so to speak—is far more enjoyable, particularly for the lady.”
“I see.” From the tone of her voice, she did not. She shifted a little closer, her gaze following the path of her fingers as they passed along his jaw and down his neck.
“You may remove my neckcloth,” he said. “And my jacket.”
As though for reassurance, she glanced back up at him. He nodded, and she deftly untied his neckcloth, setting it aside more neatly than he would have supposed. Then she slid her hands around to his jacket, unbuttoning it slowly, frowning a little as she did so.
“Is this how you usually begin?”
He winced. Although she had to know—she had alluded to as much—of his activities elsewhere, he had an aversion to discussing them with her. “On occasion.”
Evelyn, always watchful, looked at his face again, searching his features with her customary bluntness. “Have I upset you?”
