“Yes, why? There’s only Pierre and I here. As you are well aware, he cannot see you, clothed or otherwise, and I...” I reach out and slide the palm of my hand over her outer thigh. Her skin is cream silk, soft and yielding. So easily marked. “I have already committed every inch of your body to memory.”
Her breath hitches almost imperceptibly. “Regardless, it’s humiliating.” Her dark green eyes hold mine captive.
If she is indeed humiliated, then it’s not something I seek to prolong any further. I stand abruptly, and still she doesn’t flinch. Still so well-behaved. Her pupils blow wider, and again I cannot tell whether it’s from fear or desire. Her years of conditioning make it hard for even me to read her. In that way, we’re perfectly matched.
I unbutton my shirt and her eyes wander, following the path of my fingers as I unhook each button. I slide it off and then slip it over her arms, the soft cotton gliding across her skin like silk over marble.
She stares into my eyes while I fasten the buttons and I find I’m unable to look away. I am captivated by her. Innocence and seduction. Strength and vulnerability. She’s had to harden her heart to the cruel world she was raised in, but yet her capacity for compassion is unmatched. Despite how much I shouldn’twant her, and how utterly wrong this is, I cannot stop whatever is unfolding between us.
Purposely, I leave the top few buttons open, enough to leave the valley between her breasts exposed. When I’m done, I slide my hands over her arms, kneading the muscles likely stiff and sore after last night, and feeling the warmth of her skin blooming beneath my hands.
“Thank you,” she says, her breath dusting over my skin. The rosy-pink hue of her cheeks deepens to a cherry red—she couldn’t control that if she tried. Her blushes are always real, even if nothing else is.
“Now that you have some clothes, will you join me for some breakfast?”
The faintest smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, sir.”
“What would you like to eat?” I ask her when we get to the kitchen.
She glances around. “Where is Pierre?”
“He’s taken the day off.”
“I didn’t realize he took time off.”
I know he’s mentioned his family to her during one of their movie evenings, so I’m not breaking any confidence when I reveal where he is. “Today is the anniversary of his wife’s and daughter’s deaths and he always spends it alone, locked in his room with a bottle of French cognac.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Oh, that must be so hard for him.”
I adore her compassion for others, and also that she doesn’t assume she can help him or offer to go check on him. Pierre has dealt with his grief the same way on every anniversary since their death, and if he ever has the desire to change that, he knows I’m always here for him. I never travel on this day for that very reason. And I’m sure he knows that Imogen would be there for him too.
I wipe a stray tear from her cheek. “Breakfast?”
“Um.” She presses her lips together. If she says oatmeal, I’ll put the cuffs on her again and force feed her some pancakes and bacon. “How about waffles? I know how to make them if you don’t. Pierre showed me.”
Waffles? Not oatmeal. There’s my good girl.Perhaps my test helped more than I realize. I would wrap her in my arms and kiss her right now, but that would likely lead to something other than breakfast. “I know how to make them. Can you brew some fresh coffee?”
“Uh-huh.” She heads to the cupboard and hums to herself while she makes coffee and I gather up the ingredients for waffles.
“You like waffles too?” she asks.
“Not especially, but I eat them on occasion,” I tell her.
“Oh.” When I glance over at her, she’s frowning into the coffeepot.
“Why does that surprise you?”
“It’s just...” She purses her lips, and just like that she’s clamming up again.
I suppress a sigh and I walk over to her, pulling her into my arms. I grip her chin and tilt her head up. “You don’t have to think about your answer, Imogen. I want to hear the truth. Always.”
“I don’t lie,” she whispers.
“Okay. But not lying is different from being truthful. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I guess so.”
“So why are you surprised that I don’t love waffles?”
