“I thought you were running out of that?” he somehow managed.
“I am. This is the last. There is a splash left perhaps for Lambeth Palace.”
It was so unbelievably feminine that Keaton’s thoughts were scattered like pheasants fleeing the approach of beaters. He could not help but breathe in deeply, savoring the delicate flavor, feeling his head spin in the most delicious way.
“You looked distinctly angry,” Georgia said.
“I was not.”
“Your words say one thing, but your expression when you thought yourself unobserved says something else.”
“I knew I was being observed. Of course, I heard your approach.”
“Indeed? And you did not answer me because…?”
Keaton thumped the roof of the carriage, and the driver flicked the reins. The horses started, and the carriage lurched into motion. Georgia gave a small cry and fell against Keaton. She evidently had not been expecting the sudden movement.
Keaton put his arms about her protectively, a movement of pure instinct. Then he understood the nature of the mysterious dress. It covered her as it should, but its material was finer than the usual silk. It clung to her, concealing, but at the same time suggesting justwhatit concealed. At the front, it seemed cut low, perhaps a touch lower than would ordinarily be considered acceptable. He felt her breasts crushed against him.
“Are you even covered above the waist?” he asked, taken aback despite himself.
Georgia tried to push herself away from him, but Keaton held on. Her skin was so soft, perfect, and smooth as satin. It was water to a man dying of thirst. He could not stop touching her. After a moment, she settled back into his embrace with asigh. He felt her head rest against his shoulder and instinctively pressed his mouth against her hair.
“Barely,” she whispered.
He explored the outline of the dress, easily picturing her wearing it. He could scarcely believe the image that was appearing in his imagination. He feathered his fingers down her bare back, the dress cutting deeply. He wondered if it went all the way down, exposing the slopes of her derrière. It did not go so far, but the very notion was thrilling to him.
She turned, shifting her position so that he could map the dress at the front. He stroked gentle fingers along the line of her shoulders to the straps that seemed too fine to support the weight of the garment.
“This is not a dress, it is a nightdress!” he exclaimed in a whisper that was muted by the tresses of hair against his mouth.
“Do you want me to change?” she asked.
Common sense told Keaton that his answer should beyes. The dress should not be seen by other men. But to admit that would be to give her power over him. Perhaps she had chosen this specifically to induce a reaction, to prompt Keaton to ban her from wearing it.
“No. You have chosen it, you should wear it.”
He felt her shiver in his arms and tightened his embrace. He explored the region below her throat, feeling her swallow against his caress. The skin was bare. He felt her breastbone, feathering his fingers from side to side, spreading his hand wide to encompass as much of her flesh as he could. Drifting lower, he felt the shiver return, moving through her entire body, spurred by his daring and possessive touch. The slopes of her breasts appeared in his mind’s eye as his fingers felt the rise of her flesh. Further, the modesty of the dress was still not revealed. His breath caught at how much of her was on display. She wore a throw, draped loosely around her elbows, which could be drawn up to cover her, but would she?
When he finally touched the fabric that was keeping the entirety of her breasts from view, he was almost disappointed. He cupped one breast in his hand, fingers gently piercing the protective wall of the dress, delving beneath. He felt the rigidity of an upraised nipple, felt her mouth moving against his shoulder, her hands tightening on his chest. He continued his attentions, kneading her breast and pulling the dress low enough to completely expose it.
“Many men tonight will think themselves privileged to a sight of your bosoms, but they will all be deceived. Your dress tricks men into thinking they are seeing more than they are.”
“Only you will truly see me,” Georgia whispered, reaching out to run searching fingers through his hair.
“I will. Because you are mine.”
“For now,” she added ambivalently, “isn’t that what we agreed?”
She lifted her head and drew away. Keaton felt the absence keenly. Suddenly, he pulled her back into his embrace, picking her up bodily and depositing her on his lap.
Georgia laughed softly as he buried his face in her breasts. They were completely exposed now, free of the dress that almost didn’t cover them at all. Keaton kissed and felt her shudder with desire, wrapping her arms about him, pulling him closer still. He explored the contours of her curves, first through the sheer fabric and then beneath it, finding entry points where his hands could sample of her perfect, pale flesh.
She pulled his head back by the hair with a firm grip and kissed him. It was long and slow, languorous and deep. Keaton tugged the dress down her sides until it rested on her hips. He traced cold fingertips up her back, glorying as she arched her spine against his graze like a cat.
“For now,” he echoed, but without conviction.
It implied the arrival of a time when he would have no claim over her. A time when she might find another. He should have been able to distance himself, given the terms of their arrangement, to be ambivalent to that idea. But he was not. Far from it.
