He hadn’t so much as glanced up at her through this entire little soliloquy.
Daphne realized her lips had dropped open a little. She was now breathing in swift little gusts.
“And then with my lips I continue on their leisurely way... up... and up and up... until I reach that tender place inside her thigh. Andoh,that place, it’s like satin, so sweet, so hidden, so secret...” he paused and squinted at the stack “...and by the time my tongue and my lips and my fingers have reached that destination her quim is so wet... and so hot... that I can just slide my finger right into—ah, here’s the one.”
And as he slowly, triumphantly, flawlessly withdrew his chosen stick, Daphne all but went up in flames.
Heat engulfed her, head to ankle. And from her ankle to her... her... word that began with “Q”... a trail of skin tingled as surely as though she’d been sprinkled with cinders.
She had never considered her leg as a sort of sensual road leading to one particular destination.
Of course, that only implied her entire body was a sensual road.
Withwordsonly he’d done this.
Imagine what actual fingers... and lips... and tongues would do.
She stared at Lorcan, dumbstruck. Absolutely livid.
Shockingly aroused.
Thoroughly impressed.
He stared back.
“Your turn,” he reminded her politely.
He wasn’t blinking.
All of her blood seemed pooled between her legs. Which meant there was none left available to her brain with which to formulate thoughts, let alone words, let alone to surgically choose a stick from an increasingly precarious Spillikins pile.
He gazed back at her sympathetically. “Perhaps it will help if you remember how precisely you knit.”
Which made her imagine driving a sharpened Spillikins javelin-style right through his forehead.
She ducked her head. She blindly regarded the Spillikins.
Inhaling deeply, in the hopes it would clear her head like a good breeze clears cobwebs, she reached for the stick.
The blood simmering in her veins made her hand visibly tremble. It was all but useless.
Short of taking a moment to put her head out the window, there wasn’t much she could do about it. She reached for a stick. Closed two fingers over it. And as she lifted it brushed the one next to it and suddenly all was chaos.
They stared at the little collapsed pile.
“Oh, what a pity,” he said kindly.
She was torn like a wishbone between regret that the word “bastard” had sprung to mind so swiftly, since surely this was emblematic of her plummet into iniquity, and a new appreciation of its power.
“Hallelujah” was another word that came to mind, and it was equally troubling, given the circumstances.
Surely, he could see her heart pounding in her throat.
It wasn’t fair. But she of course couldn’t say that aloud. She would sound like a petulant child. She was naive, and she hadn’t anything equivalent in her arsenal with which to combat him, and he likely knew it.
Just as he’d somehow known precisely how she would respond.
Well, he’d warned her.
