“Yes,” she whispered, and with a groan, he slid his palm along her side, reaching her back, then the curve of her backside, bringing her hips against his.
A hard ridge pressed against her stomach, and she looked up at him questioningly, her fingertips pulsing with the force of her heartbeat. Her hand was still pressed against his stomach.
“That is how much I want you, Thalia.”
His other hand reached her breast, fingers finding the slight rise of her nipple and running back and forth over it, until the sensitivity made her head spin.
How could such a simple action, performed over clothes, feel so good?
“I want things no gentleman should want from a lady.” He moved to her other breast, and she whimpered. “And youarea lady, Thalia. No matter what you believe about yourself.”
“I don’t feel like a lady here,” she said, and his dark eyes traveled over her face.
“Do you consider that a bad thing?”
“Here, I am just a woman. And you are just a man.” She brought her other hand atop his on her breast, holding him against her. “An artist should know… She ought to know about the things she sculpts.”
“Mm.” He leaned in, brushing her cheek with his nose, and she trembled. His hands, the strength and heat of his body, were all that held her together. “Passion.”
“Yes.” Her voice was so breathy, she felt rather than heard the words. “Passion.”
He brushed his lips across hers, kissing her slowly, reverently, his tongue sliding across the seam of her lips. He pulled back. “What do you want?”
Everything.
That was the honest answer, but she feared it revealed too much of herself.
“I want to know what you want that no gentleman should,” she countered.
His hand slid up from her breast to her throat, lingering there long enough that she could feel her pulse pounding against his fingers, long enough that she knew he held all the power here. Then he reached her lips, tracing the shape of them, pressing against the seam. She opened her mouth, letting him in, welcoming him with her tongue.
He groaned. “I want to taste you,” he said into her mouth. “Everywhere.”
Everywhere.
“Then do it,” she said, half shocked at her daring.
“Here?”
“Put a chair in front of the door. No one will know.”
The moment she looked into his eyes, she knew she had won. He wanted her too much to resist for the sake of her reputation, and that was the true victory.
“Lie before the fire,” he commanded, his voice dark and sinful.
As he propped a chair before the door, she did as she was told. Carefully, she lay down on the chaise longue by the leftover heat from the dying embers. Maxwell came to take his place beside her, kneeling and putting her ankles on his thighs.
She felt as though she was dreaming, watching the way he wrapped his hands around her ankles, slowly sliding them up her calves, pushing her dress up her legs as he went.
The world was tinted with red from the fire and the flickering candles, and she knew that when she finally returned home, nothing would ever quite feel the same again. She felt as though with every passing second, he reached inside her and altered the chemistry of her very body.
His fingers grazed her garters at the top of her stockings, and Thalia bit her lip, tilting her head back so she could look atthe ceiling. Candlelight danced across the ceiling as Maxwell’s fingers dipped under her stockings and against bare skin.
Without intending to, she let her legs fall open, her skirts falling in the dip between her legs, concealing her to his gaze.
She had never known hunger until this moment. Never known passion. Never known lust.
“Have you ever sculpted scenes like this?” he asked, his fingers grazing bare skin.
