But although he wanted nothing more than to rip the remaining clothes from her, he paused and looked at her. The flush on her cheeks, and the brightness in her eyes marred by hesitancy.
“You are magnificent,” he said. “I would like to see all of you. Would you let me?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, fingers tight on the lace of her drawers. “Yes, please.”
He nodded and stepped back, giving her space. “Would you like to remove the final layers yourself?”
Relief flooded her expression at the control he had just handed back to her. Interesting, and yet not surprising. He ought to have known that Evelyn, who prized her independence, would be more comfortable holding the reins of their interactions.
And it entertained him just as well to watch her quick fingers as she unlaced her corset. His cock throbbed, but he did his best to ignore it. He would not rush her, or make things about himself. The reason wanted this was so that she could know pleasure, not so she could learn how best to please him.
As she removed the final layers of her clothing, he sucked in a breath at what she revealed. Soft, pale skin, untouched by sun or wind or the gaze of another man. Small breasts, the nipples already peaked, her hands moving from them to the soft roll of her stomach, then lower, to the thatch of hair below, as though not sure what to conceal.
He felt a little like a drowning man, lost beneath the waves; she was his last breath.
All these years, he had wondered how she would look divested of her clothes, her starched propriety. His Evelyn,his—
Only she was not his. At least, not for very long. Not long at all, certainly not long enough. He would have her only for a matter of days. He would have her and ruin her, and perhaps himself be ruined for all time, because this here was everything his youthful self had dreamt of, and having it come true in such a way made his chest ache in a new, undefined way.
Her hands fell away, to the bed on either side of her shapely hips, and she looked at him with her familiar, wonderful bluntness.
“You are silent,” she said.
He gathered the remnants of his composure, knowing he must do this for her if not himself. “Speechless, my dear, is not the same thing.” He drank her in, wishing he could live in this moment for the rest of his life, then cursing himself for the whimsical nature his thoughts had taken. “You are delectable.” He resisted the urge to move, though God knew he wanted nothing more to take her into his arms. Making love had never been what he was about; there was little enough of love in the pleasure he found at the hands of his paramours, and heaven knew he had felt no love for them. But with Evelyn, the enormity of what they were about to do hit him anew, like a man standing on the tracks as a train chugged towards him. His feet were tied; he was helpless to stop the inevitable.
She looked at him steadily. “I believe it’s your turn.”
His turn. He laughed, feeling a trifle foolish, feeling a multitude of things he had not expected to feel at the sight of her—desire included but far from the primary emotion—and removed his clothes as quickly as he could without tearing at the buttons like a madman. Then he, too, stood naked before her, and she looked at him with rounded eyes.
It had been a long time since he had weighed himself against a lady’s curious stare. He had not been self-conscious for a little while, not since he was a boy, certainly, but she had a way of seeing straight through him. She always had.
He kept silent, giving her time and space to fully absorb the differences between their bodies. Where she was rounded and soft, he was spare almost to the point of thinness.
She frowned as she raised her gaze from his erection to his chest. “You do not resemble the statues.”
He choked a laugh. “In which ways do I disappoint?”
“Not disappoint,” she said, and her gaze fell again to his crotch. “It’s just . . . different.”
Tenderness bloomed in him, and he came to kneel before her. “Are you certain you’re comfortable?”
The line between her brows deepened as she glanced down again. “I think I understand how this works,” she said slowly, “but I am not altogether convinced it can be pleasant.”
“Well, so it would not be if I were to enter you without proper preparation. Remember what I said yesterday, that preparation is often more enjoyable for the lady than the event itself? Today, we will focus on that.”
“That alone?”
“Well,” he allowed, because his blood was racing, and by the devil he was not certain he could do the decent thing and resist if she proved she wanted it too, “we shall see. That won’t be the primary focus, at least.” He guided her down so she lay on her back across the bed, and gently rested his hand on the soft swell of her belly as he lay beside her. She sucked in a breath, as though this was more than she had bargained for. He longed to take her small breasts in his hands, squeezing and kneading and learning what she found pleasurable, but he would have to wait. Again, he would have to wait.
What sweet torment. Yet when he finally had her, the anticipation would make it all the better.
“Now,” he said. “I would like you to touch yourself.”
“I? Myself?” She turned her head so she faced him. “What do you mean?”
“Here.” He took her hand and placed it where his had been. Then, using her wrist, he dragged it slowly down to the thatch of hair below. “Before allowing me access to your body, you should know how it feels to be touched there. Understand yourself a little more before you give me leave to do the same.” He smiled. “And then you may know a little more of what you like, so you might guide me.”
A frown touched her brow. “But I wantedyouto help me learn.”
