“Undo the rest of my clasps.”
He arches a brow, making no move to obey.
“The heroine’s dress should slouch off her shoulders just so.” My voice sounds so unlike my own. So breathless. So quiet.
A wicked glint fills his eyes, and his lips quirk at one corner. Finally, he fulfills my request, loosening the bottom clasps. My bodice slides down, baring an inch more of my cleavage. He drops his hands, but I reach for one, guiding it to the hem of my skirt.
“The hero’s hand should be here, lifting her hem to her thigh.”
He clutches the fabric between his fingers and lets me guide his hand up my leg, baring it almost to my hip crease and the lacy hem of my undershorts. I watch his reflection, a thrill running through me at the sight of him biting his lower lip.
“His other hand,” I say, guiding the other to my shoulder, sliding off the cap sleeve and making my bodice dip even farther on that side, “here.”
He stiffens behind me, and I feel the firmness of his erection, even through the layers of my skirt.
“Daph,” he whispers, eyelids heavy with want.
“Or maybe…” I release the hand that lifts my hem. His fingers stay curled around the folds of my skirt, arms trembling with restraint. I tug my bodice beneath the hand he lays upon my shoulder. Once. Twice. It slides down several more inches until it finally bares my breast. His eyes widen at the sight of it, at my firm nipple. Then, with slow moves, I guide his hand from my shoulder until he’s cupping me fully.
A groan escapes his lips and he pulls me tight against him, rolling his hips against my ass as his face falls to the crook of my neck. I lean into the hand that cups my breast, aching for friction. But he doesn’t move again. Instead, he goes still, save for the tremors that rack through him, the pulse of his lungs as his chest heaves against my back.
“What are we doing?” His words are hardly more than a breath on my neck.
“Chapter Eight,” I say, pressing my thighs together to sate the burning heat that continues to pool.
He lifts his lips to my ear. I watch in the mirror as he grazes his teeth against my lobe. The sight and feel combined send a violent shudder through me. “Chapter Eight isn’t a lesson. It’s supplementary information.”
“It’s information I want,” I say, rolling my backside into his straining length. “Information I’m unfamiliar with. Which makes it a lesson.”
Another groan reverberates through him. “You’re supposed to perform these lessons with a suitor.”
“I thought you said I wouldn’t be doing Chapter Eight material with a suitor this weekend. Should I, then? Should I practice on a test subject instead?”
He bares his teeth and glares at the side of my face. “No.”
“Then teach me. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. I…want this. I want to know what it’s like to experience pleasure with a partner. I want to learn how to ask for what I want. I’m comfortable with you. I’m not afraid to try things with you. So I’m asking. Will you teach me?”
His hand tightens on my breast but he says nothing.
A ripple of apprehension dampens some of my desire. Am I coming on too strong? Am I doing that thing I do when I misread the mood of a room? Misread a person? My posture stiffens. “If you don’t want to?—”
“I want to.” He brings his face back to my neck, resting his forehead there as he gathers a few breaths. “I want to, but…”
My heart falls and I brace myself for rejection.
“We can’t kiss,” he says, and there’s remorse in his tone.
I angle my head toward him. “We can’t?”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “If we do this, we do it for the sake of sex and pleasure.”
“Isn’t kissing part of sex and pleasure?”
“It’s more intimate than that. To me at least. If we kiss, it’s real. If we don’t, it’s just…sex.”
I ponder his words. I never considered kissing to be more intimate than sex, but I think I understand what he means. One can separate sex and pleasure from emotion. I’ve done it before, especially when I was a pine marten and mated out of instinct. Every sexual encounter I’ve had with a partner in seelie form has been devoid of emotion. So I suppose he’s right. It is more intimate in a way. Furthermore, it’s more vulnerable on a practical level. When two people bring their faces so close, they put themselves at risk. I glance down at where his pulse tics at his throat. All it would take is a small movement from me and I could rip out his jugular with my teeth. I doubt that’s exactly what he meant, but it helps me understand.
“Fine,” I say. “No kissing.”
