“I thought this was a social call.”
She laughed. “William…”
He dropped his gaze for a moment, and when he looked up, the fire had turned his eyes the color of glass.
“If it is a document you want,” he said, “I have brought nothing. I prefer to conduct business openly.”
“Liar.” She rose, her movement crafted to draw his attention. She closed the distance between them, stopping just shy of propriety. “You have never done anything openly.”
He stood firm. “Neither have you.”
“That is precisely why I invited you to join me here.” She pressed her ungloved hand to his chest—not over his heart, but just beneath the second button of his waistcoat. “Do you trust me?”
He inhaled, and for the first time, uncertainty clouded his usual irony. “No,” he admitted. “But I want to.”
She smiled, a smile that could win wars. “Good. Then don’t move.”
With her other hand, she began to undo his waistcoat, button by button. The fabric resisted her, but she persisted, her fingertips grazing the linen beneath. He clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“You seem determined,” he said, his tone teasing.
“I assure you, I am.”
She finished the row of buttons and slipped her hand inside, palm flat against his shirtfront. The heat of him surprised her. “I want to make you feel,” she murmured close to his ear, “entirely out of control.”
“That is a dangerous ambition.”
“Life is dangerous,” she said, her gaze locking with his.
She pulled him down and kissed him with the intensity of someone who had envisioned this moment many times. His mouth tasted of salt and brandy. She bit his lower lip, and he gasped, the sound raw and human.
Drawing back, she studied his face in the half-light. “Sit.”
He perched on the edge of the chaise, as if expecting the world to tilt. She stood over him, unfastening her second glove, then draped it across his shoulder like a challenge. “Your turn.”
He hesitated, then reached for her sleeve, fingers skimming her wrist. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “But I want it all the more.”
He slipped the fabric from her arm, moving slowly, then traced the line of her elbow to the pulse in the hollow.
She shivered.
He noticed and smiled, not in triumph but in gratitude. He gathered her hands in his, turned them palm up, and kissed the sensitive flesh at the base of each thumb.
She laughed, genuine and bright. “I thought you didn’t do romance.”
“I don’t,” he replied. “But I like to be thorough.”
She tugged his cravat loose, pulling him forward until his face was buried in her neck. He exhaled, warmth flooding her collarbone. She arched into it, allowing her head to fall back. He tasted her just below the ear, and she rewarded him with a hiss of breath.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” she said, bringing her hands to his scalp, threading her fingers through his dark hair. “But you’ll do as I say.” Her brazenness shocked her, but she longed to feel alive. To take pleasure for herself.
He laughed against her throat, the vibration electric. “You’re a vixen.”
“I have two years of restraint to account for.”
