“Not at all. I’m just glad that, whoever she was, she had excellent taste. For the most part,” she amended, thinking of the glaring exception in the bedchamber.
Andrew set down his napkin. “The meal was delicious.”
“What can I say? Your cook is talented.” Buying time, she said quickly, “There’s dessert, if you want it.”
“I do.”
“The blancmange is on the bottom of the cart—” Her words ended in a gasp for he’d risen and swept her easily into his arms. “What are you doing?”
“Having dessert.”
~~~
“There’s something I ought to tell you,” Primrose said.
“Let’s talk in bed.”
Andrew thought his a fair suggestion considering they were in her bedchamber, her clothing strewn in a trail behind them. He drank in the sight of Primrose: her golden tresses had fallen free of its fussy coiffure, her firm, pink-tipped tits giving a saucy bounce with each backward step she took. Six more, he judged, and she’d hit the edge of the bed—an oversized affair surrounded by gauzy white curtains that hung from the ceiling.
Five steps, four…
“I wanted to tell you this before,” she persisted.
He stripped off his jacket, tossed it over a chair as he passed. “Tell me what, sweetheart?”
Her gaze landed on the prominent bulge in his trousers, and her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. “It’s about the bed.”
“An apropos topic.” His waistcoat went the way of his jacket, and he advanced another step.
She retreated accordingly.
…three steps… two steps…
The back of her knees hit the mattress; nowhere left for her to go.
“I didn’t have time to have it changed,” she blurted.
“I don’t give a damn.” He gave her a gentle push, and, with a little squeal, she tumbled backward onto the bed. He followed, careful to keep his weight from crushing her. He nuzzled her ear, inhaling her fragrance greedily. “In case you’re worried, my servants are well trained. I’m certain they changed the sheets without your instruction.”
“I wasn’t referring to the sheets.”
He raised his head, puzzled. Cheeks rosy, she wordlessly pointed upward.
He twisted his head around—and let out a bark of laughter. “Good God.”
“I know. It’s terribly wicked, isn’t it?” Primrose said in a rush.
Her flushed cheeks and sultry eyes betrayed that she wasn’t quite as scandalized as she wanted to be. He slanted another glance up at the enormous looking glass affixed to the ceiling. The image of their entwined bodies—hers nude, his clothed—magnified his lust.
Her eyes met his in the reflection, her lips parting. When she squirmed, his thigh nudged into the cove of her legs; he nearly groaned when her dew soaked his skin through the trousers. Despite her primness about certain matters, Primrose was a firebrand in bed.
Recalling her reaction to the viewing holes in his club, he decided it was an excellent time to broaden her horizons. To show her that she didn’t need to hide behind fashionable trappings and inhibitions. To guide her in the exploration of her desires.
“Who’s to say what is wicked?” he murmured. “In the bedroom, there are no rules between us, sunshine, except what we choose.”
“But you must admit a mirror above the bed is scandalous,” she said in a muffled voice.
“Perhaps. Is it not also arousing?” Deliberately, he shifted onto his side, giving her a full view of herself in the mirror. Anticipation simmered as he saw her gaze transfixing upon the image. “Let’s play a game, shall we? Keep your eyes on the mirror, and don’t stop looking until I tell you to.”
