“You know the answer.”
“Tell me.”
“If we were alone, you wouldn’t be touching me like this. You’d be under me, panting my name, urging me deeper, begging me not to stop.”
He felt the gentle tremor in her hand. Heard the hitch in her breath that proved she wanted him. His body was already hers. One more stroke and he’d spend in her hand like a schoolboy.
“And if we were alone,” she murmured, “you’d find just how ready I am for you, Gabriel.”
He hissed through his teeth. “Are you deliberately trying to make me climax in a theatre box?”
“What? Is the staid Marquess of Rothley about to lose control?”
“Damn right I am.”
God help him, it wasn’t just desire. It was the dawning realisation that restraint would soon become impossible. That with her, he lost all semblance of sanity. Yet he welcomed the freedom it brought.
“Our private parlour is mere feet away. When this play ends, I intend to close the door, lift your skirts, and show you precisely what you’ve awakened.”
Applause broke out, sharp and sudden. The curtain fell on the third act. All around them, people stood, the hum of chatter swelling as the familiar rush to the refreshment room began.
He rose, turning towards the curtain that shielded the reardoor. With measured movements, he restored his composure and everything her hand had undone.
Then, as though their entire exchange had been nothing more than polite conversation, he turned back to her. His coat lay smooth, his cravat immaculate, yet the truth surely burned in his eyes. Want. Hunger. The aching need to claim her.
He extended his hand. “Shall we?”
She took it without a word. The sultry curve of her smile confirmed she knew precisely what to expect as he led her into their private room.
He drew the curtains. Turned the key in the lock.
He held her gaze while shrugging out of his coat and laying it over the leather chair. “Tell me you feel it too. That you can’t wait until we’re home to have me.”
That you’ve never wanted anything quite so badly.
“Surely the answer is obvious.”
Her eyes settled on the velvet settee, and he knew, with sudden certainty, she meant to ruin him for any other woman.
He stepped closer, his gaze dipping to the same red sofa. “If we make love here, I’ll insist we attend the theatre weekly.”
“Then we should always arrive an hour before supper.” She eased off her slippers, an act of silent surrender. “We’ll have to go home after this and miss the end of the play.”
He sat on the settee, bracing his hands on his thighs to settle his pulse. “I know every line. I doubt we’ll learn anything here, other than how to please each other.”
He parted his legs, then unfastened the fall of his trousers, daring her to watch. There was no mistaking what strained beneath. He made no effort to hide it. Not when she stood in her stocking feet, her slippers abandoned like a promise on the carpet.
“Do you see how restraint is a foreign word when I’m alone with you?”
Her breath caught. Her eyes widened, enough for him to know she understood precisely what was about to happen.
“Come here.” It wasn’t a command, not quite a plea, but something ruinously close to both. “If you want me”—he paused, letting the air stretch, tighten—“come and take your place on my lap.”
Watching her was his favourite sin.
He would not take her over the arm of a chair. He wanted her here. Facing him. Seeing his desire unmasked.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t blush. She simply gathered her skirts and crossed the space between them like a woman who had already made her choice.
