His erection bobbed eagerly in the air, as though seeking the warm pressure of her hand once again.
For a long moment, she just looked at it, amused with the way it hardened just from her gaze alone, veins bulging along the side and a tiny bead of moisture at the tip.
When she brought her hand to him again, he let out a harsh sound that made her feel as though she were flying. Taking her time, she explored him by candlelight and touch, smoothing her fingers over the soft skin. His sac, hanging underneath, the skin firming as she took him gently in her fingers and squeezed.
He released another ragged breath, but said absolutely nothing, remaining utterly still as she brought her fingers all over him, learning the touches he liked and the ones he didn’t.
When she brushed her other hand across his nipple, he twitched in her hand. An answering throb echoed between her legs. Already, she knew she was slick with desire.
“Get on the bed,” she told him, and he didn’t hesitate, crossing to the bed and lying on his back. Another thrill ran through her as he watched her with hawk-like focus, waiting for her next instruction.
This man, stronger than her by far, lay motionless,waiting.
He would do whatever she asked.
Anticipation buzzed through her like lightning.
His acquiescence was the reason she felt no compunction about fetching her shawl and folding it. “I’m going to place this over your eyes,” she explained as she brought it to his face. “Let me know if you can still see anything.”
There was a spark in his eyes before she covered them, and his hand twitched from where it lay on his stomach. “As you command,” he murmured. When she had secured it in place, he moved his head back and forth. “I can see nothing.”
“Good.” Stepping back, she reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head. The cold air bit at hernaked skin, and she ran a self-conscious hand over her ribs. Too many years of not enough food had left their mark; she had never been voluptuous, but hunger had stolen all her lushness, and this week had not been enough to repair the damage. Her breasts, always small, were practically nonexistent, and she could count the ridge of her ribs, pressed against the jut of her hipbone.
Men did not lust after her the way they had lusted after other young ladies—after Isabella, even.
Oliver wanted her even knowing that she didn’t possess curves, but she couldn’t bear the vulnerability that came from revealing everything to him. All the things Marlbury had praised about her body, hardship had stripped clean away.
She would not allow the past to take the present from her.
Oliver’s hand twitched slightly as she knelt on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. For once, she didn’t move quickly. With Marlbury, they had always been eager to take advantage of what little time they had—and so often, they had so little time. Snatched moments together that had felt like glimpses of sunlight on a cloudy day.
She placed a hand against Oliver’s stomach, and his muscles contracted.
“Emily,” he said on a rasp. “May I touch you?”
She considered his words, and his hand clenched into a fist at the silence. But still she waited until she was sure of her answer. “Not yet.”
His frustrated groan came with the edge of a laugh. “Cruelty incarnate.”
“Am I?” Next she placed her palm against his thigh, and saw the way his muscles rippled all the way up his body. “Hand above your head.”
He made no objection, raising it until his fingers locked around the metal bars of the headboard. “Is this to your liking?”he asked, and she smiled, though he could not see—that smile was for her and her alone.
“Yes,” she said, and moved, straddling his thighs. He released a long, sharp huff of air. Almost a sigh, but not quite. A gasp, an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. He twitched again, but despite the dampness between her own thighs, she moved slowly, sliding her hands up his legs to the sharp arrow of his hipbones. The taut flatness of his stomach. His breaths came fast as she deliberately skirted where he wanted her the most.
But although she could sense his impatience, knew implicitly how very much he wanted this, he made no attempt to move his hand or free his eyes. In yielding to her, he had given her his word, and she could see now he would not break it. Relief burned in her heart at the realisation. Part of her, even now, had been preparing for the inevitable moment he broke her trust. She had been guarding herself against the prospect of hurt, even as she bared herself to him.
In silent thanks, she bent and pressed her lips to his ribs. His every breath, deep and shuddering, lanced through her, a pleasure of its own though he hadn’t so much as laid a finger on her.
Slowly, she kissed down his torso until she was at his very tip. He made a muffled sound of what could only be described as despair.
She raised her head. “Do you want to stop?”
“No. Please, don’t stop.” His chin rose, and his lips parted as he took a breath. “Do whatever you choose with me.”
“You’re enjoying this?”
“The most exquisite of tortures.”
