Her lips were soft, responsive. She kissed him back with an enthusiasm that surprised him, that inflamed him. For someone who claimed not to know lust, she was remarkably adept at inspiring it.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard, Penelope's lips swollen and red, her eyes glazed with desire and confusion.
“Do exactly as I told you,” Cecil said, his voice rough and commanding. “Tonight. Promise me.”
Penelope nodded wordlessly, and Cecil could see she was beyond speech.
Then, before he could do something truly foolish – like kiss her again, like push her against the bookshelf and show her exactly what lust could feel like – he turned and strode toward the door.
The moment the door closed behind him, Cecil leaned against it heavily, pressing one hand to his face.
What the hell had he just done?
He had kissed Penelope Waverly. Had given her explicit, detailed instructions on how to pleasure herself. Had stood there and let himself get lost in the feel of her mouth, the sound of her breathless sighs, the way her body had fit against his so perfectly.
It was reckless. Dangerous. Completely inappropriate. He was supposed to be finding a wife, and she was supposed to be helping him. This was not part of their arrangement.
And yet, even now, all he could think about was going back into that library and finishing what he had started. Pushing her against the bookshelf, hiking up her skirts, showing her exactly what pleasure felt like.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered, pushing away from the door and starting down the hall toward his chambers. His body was still thrumming with unspent desire, his skin felt too hot, too tight.
But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Penelope's face – the way she had looked at him with such trust, such curiosity. The way she had surrendered to him so completely, had asked him to teach her with such vulnerability in her voice.
The way she had asked him to teach her.
Cecil exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he walked. He needed a drink. Several drinks. Maybe an entire bottle.
He was in trouble. Deep, dangerous trouble.
Because despite everything – despite their constant bickering, despite the fact that she drove him to distraction on a daily basis, despite the fact that she was supposed to be helping him find someone else to marry – he could not stop thinking about Penelope Waverly.
He shook his head, trying to chase away the thoughts of what it meant to have someone constantly running through his mind.
He reached his chambers and closed the door behind him, leaning against it. The room was dark, lit only by moonlight streaming through the windows.
He thought about Penelope in her own chambers, preparing for bed. Thought about whether she would follow his instructions. Whether she would touch herself the way he had described.
The image made heat pool low in his belly, made his hands clench into fists.
“What an utterly dangerous creature,” he whispered to the empty room, and he was no longer certain whether he was talking about Penelope or himself.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was going to do something incredibly foolish.
He just hoped they would both survive it.
Because whatever this was between them – this tension, this desire, this strange connection that felt like both friendship and something infinitely more dangerous – it was not going away.
If anything, it was only getting stronger.
And Cecil had no idea what to do about it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sound of the door shutting jolted Penelope back to her senses.
Reflexively, she lifted her hands to her lips, the warmth of Cecil’s kiss still lingering, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to scream.
What had she done? How could she have allowed that to happen?
