Lucien went still. His gaze locked on hers. He was actually shocked. And heavily aroused.
Ianthe smiled as she stroked the lush, already damp folds of her secret self. She pulled her skirts just a little higher, revealing herself. Her breasts heaved, pushing against the constraints of her bodice. "I do wonder," she whispered, as her psychic touch trailed lower over his abdomen, "who will last the longest?"
The touch was light, a whisper of sensation over his skin. Tempting, teasing, and twisting him tighter, until he was almost ready to explode.
And the little devil watched his reaction, her teeth sunk in her fleshy lower lip, as she slowly stroked herself between the thighs, eyelashes fluttering lower and her cheeks painted a pretty pink. "I thought you wanted me to please you, Rathbourne?"
"This does please me. I want you wet," Lucien told her, leaning against the window and watching her. Feigning an unruffled demeanor, though a muscle tightened in his jaw as those invisible hands caressed the inside of his thighs. He couldn't stop his hands from clenching. Bloody woman. He was rapidly losing track of this seduction. He just wanted inside her. Now. "When we get inside, I want you to go upstairs to your bedchamber, bend over your bed, and lift your skirts. I want you to be ready for me, Ianthe. I plan to take you then, with no preliminaries."
Her fingers paused, her eyes springing wide. "So be it," she whispered. Her fingers resumed their work, and he could see now, see the blushing pink depths of her and the paler flicker of her fingernails.
Fuck. Lucien ground his teeth together, trying to stifle the raging erection in his trousers. She knew it too, the devil, her eyes laughing at him as she fingered herself. Her flesh all soft and flushed and peeking out every now and then from beneath the exquisite mound of her petticoats.
"Harder," he whispered.
Again, a flicker of uncertainty danced through her eyes; then she slid one finger inside herself. As if to compensate, a phantom fingertip stroked down the length of his cock. Lucien groaned. He'd never been with a woman who could do that.
"Are you thinking of this?" he asked, cupping his cock. Fabric strained over it, the shape brutish and straining. He needed to touch it. "Of how I'm going to fuck you? Would you like it to be soft and slow, Ianthe? Or hard?"
There'd be no time to ask later.
Her head lolled back, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. The flush of desire painted her body, a soft moan easing from her lips. A firm fist of pressure locked around his cock, taking him to the edge.
"Stop," he commanded.
That hand stopped, her fingers buried deep inside her wet opening. Luminous, half-dazed eyes opened, locking on him incredulously.
He smiled, relishing the moment. "Remove your hand and stop touching me."
"Why?" she breathed.
"I intend for you to reach your pleasure, my dear, but not alone. I'll let you come later, when I'm buried inside you." His words turned dangerously soft. "Only when I'm inside you, Ianthe. You're not to touch yourself from now on, not unless I allow it. Not even during the day."
With visible agitation, Miss Martin thrust her skirts down over her knees, leaning back and pressing the back of her hand to her lips. She wouldn't look at him, though her heart was racing, visible in the flickering pulse at her throat.
"Besides," he murmured, "we're almost home."
Taking her hand, still slick from her body, Luc pressed it to his mouth, his tongue darting over the musky taste of her and earning a shocked flinch. "Are you ready?"
"More than ready." Those violet eyes challenged him. She’d recovered herself with exquisite aplomb.
"Good," he said, stroking her knuckles as the carriage pulled up to the curb. "Now go make yourself ready and wait for me."
Lucien took his time, sending the butler for some brandy, as Ianthe glared at him then made her way upstairs.
It felt strange to be in this place, going through the daily routine as though nothing had changed, as though Bedlam had never happened. He sipped his brandy, savoring the taste and the scent of it, but he couldn't pretend much longer. The only scent he wanted to smell right now was the musk of Ianthe's body. The only taste he needed was her skin beneath his mouth. She'd been gone for almost five minutes. Long enough to show her who was in charge here. Need itched beneath his skin.
Cock raging, he drained the glass, then left it on the mantle in the parlor. He'd intended to drag this moment out, but there was no point in pretending he could think about anything else but the temptress upstairs.
"A light dinner," he told the maid as he passed her near the stairs, "to be delivered at the half hour. Precisely."
Climbing the stairs left him almost trembling with need. He didn't bother to knock on the bedchamber door. Instead, he opened it and stepped inside swiftly, shutting the door with a gentle click. The swift intake of a breath behind him indicated she'd heard him. Lucien's mouth went dry, and he slowly turned, reaching up to drag his cravat away from his throat.
He was transfixed by the sight before him. All he could see were the wicked pink stockings Miss Martin wore, ending at mid-thigh, and the exquisite lace of her garters. Hands fisted her skirts into a bunch over her back, revealing the smooth globes of her bottom and the flushed pink wetness he was about to devour. Luc's hand fisted in the cravat, the room shuddering a little around him. He forced himself to hold onto control, tightly winding the cravat around his fist to remind himself.
Ianthe's breath was a soft sob. She couldn't see him.
Lucien poured himself another brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, gulping it down with a dark look in her direction. Each chink of glassware made her shift on the bed. Her fists quivered, and her skirts started to slide down.
