She looked at him.
“Not like that.”
“What is wrong with how I am looking at you?”
“You look as though I have asked you to solve an equation. Look at me as though I am the only man in the world.”
“That is absurd.”
“It is useful. Try.”
Lily drew a breath and tried. She held his gaze and attempted to soften her expression into something that suggested fascination rather than suspicion.
Hugo shook his head. “You are thinking about it too much.”
“I like thinking.”
“I know you do.” His voice dropped, and he leaned closer. His breath stirred the loose curls near her temple. “But you are allowed to feel, Lily.”
The words slipped beneath her defenses before she could stop them.
She missed a step.
His hand tightened at her waist, steadying her.
“You carry every thought, every want, every impulse as though admitting it would ruin you.”
“That is a dramatic interpretation of poor dancing.”
“No. It is an accurate interpretation of you.”
Her heart thudded harder. “And what do you suggest?”
His gaze held hers for a moment too long.
“That you stop treating desire as though it belongs only to other people.”
The room seemed to shrink around them.
Lily swallowed. “I do not know what that means.”
Something shifted behind his eyes. Surprise, followed by understanding, then a tenderness he covered far too quickly with a faint smile.
“It means you do not need to wait for a man to tell you what your body enjoys. You may discover some of that for yourself.” He held her gaze. “Tonight, when you are alone, and the house is quiet, and that restlessness returns… and it will return… do not fight it. Lie back. Close your eyes.”
His voice dropped to something barely above a breath. “Let your hands wander. Slowly. There is no rush. Pay attention to what makes your breath catch. What makes your skin flush. What makes you want more.”
His thumb traced a slow circle against her waist, so light she might have imagined it. “Your body already knows what it wants, Lily. You have simply never given it permission to ask.”
Her lips parted.
Heat climbed her neck, then her cheeks. She could not decide whether to slap him, shove him out, or demand he explainprecisely what he meant, which was surely the most mortifying possibility of all.
“That is not something you ought to be saying to me.”
“Which is why I am leaving.”
He released her waist and stepped back. The absence of his hand was almost worse than the touch.
