Breath catching, Ianthe rested her hands on her lap, waiting. Every second stretched out the tension between them. Her pulse began to race as her body remembered what it had felt like to have him kneeling above her in her secret chambers, his fingertip painting that blasted mark between her breasts. Even now, the mark began to sink into her flesh, as if some sort of sorcery worked its magic between them.
"Pull your skirts up."
So he liked to be in charge, did he?
Ianthe breathed in, then out, making her own quiet decisions, and then slowly, slowly curled a fistful of her skirts in each hand.
This was a new game. The challenge was to see who broke first.
If Rathbourne thought her in any way squeamish...
Her smile had edges to it, she was positive, and when she met his gaze with an arched eyebrow, dragging her skirts higher, she could see her ploy had struck its mark. She wasn't the only one tested by desire here.
Rathbourne's mouth hardened, though his eyes turned to pure fire. Hungry. "Well?" he said, leaning on his fist and flicking a bored hand at her, as if to say: Any time you're ready, my dear.
"But we've got all night, have we not?" she all but purred. The drag of her skirts against her knees and then thighs rustled in the sleek compartment. Cool air whispered over her sensitive skin. Obeying left her wet and aching.
"Perhaps I've got plans."
"Oh? Do tell?"
The smile he gave her was dangerous. "No, I don't think so. I think I like it when you don't know what I intend. Remove your drawers."
Her breath caught. "Don't you want to do it yourself?"
Those amber eyes glittered furiously. "If I wanted to do it myself, then I wouldn't be sitting here watching you."
So be it. Submission could be merely another means of controlling the situation. Ianthe shifted and wiggled them down her legs, her petticoats spilling down to hide herself. They were pale pink linen. Clenching them in her fist, she stared at him. What now?
Rathbourne held out a hand, and her cheeks burned as she deposited them in it. He never took his eyes off her as he tucked them in the inner pocket of his jacket.
"Touch yourself."
That shocked her. "What?"
"I want to see you please yourself. Surely you know how."
Of course she did. When a sorcerer's energy was driven by sexual means and one didn't have a lover, one had to be resourceful. But that was private. From the smoldering look in his eyes though, he knew that.
Damned if she would give him the satisfaction. Parting her legs, Ianthe slid tentative fingers up her inner thighs. The ache inside ratcheted tighter, made her wet her lips, her teeth sinking slowly into the flesh of her lower one. Those fingers traced slow circles on her inner thigh, sending tingles shooting through her. It was the way he watched her that made her wet, an intense look in his eyes. The way tension rode his hard frame. He was one step away from reaching for her... Ianthe shuddered.
Lucien's eyes were heavy-lidded, and he rested his chin on his hand. "Are you trying to tease me, my dear?"
"Am I succeeding?"
He shifted slightly. A faint smile traced his hard mouth. "What do you think?"
Ianthe slid her fingertip lightly against her clitoris. Sensation shivered through her. "I think one of us is more patient than the other."
Those hard eyes softened lazily, as if she'd said something that amused him. "Do you want to see who it is? Is that the game? Whoever lasts the longest?"
"You enjoy the play of power, don't you?" Again, she let her fingertips brush against her secret flesh. He couldn't see it. Her skirts saw to that. But she could see the flare of his nostrils as he took a sharp breath, and the tightening of his pupils. Warm light from the mage globe bathed the two of them.
"One could say the same, madam. First you challenge me not to kiss you first, now this... Who's playing games, Ianthe?"
Ianthe. The hot stroke of his tongue over her name sent shivers through her. A sudden wicked urge overtook her. He had ordered her to touch herself: he was not unmoved. And she wanted to win this. She wanted to move him.
Using her telekinesis, she lightly stroked him with her senses, 'caressing' the broad planes of his chest, as if with her own hands.
