She veiled her eyes, could look no longer, could not withstand the inflaming blue gaze of Ernest in the mirror as his other hand skimmed, roamed the delicate skin of her inner thigh, skirts draped and hiding his devilish intent.
But she could feel… Feel his fingertips rising upwards in such nimble strokes until he could go no further and she moaned at his light touch – too little, too much.
Scandalous and burning sweetness.
His palm began a slow circular rhythm, fingers dipping and brushing into her, and her back arched, breath gasping. She wished to reach behind with her hands but her arms were caught in the dress and all she could do was twist her face and kiss his throat and chin.
He groaned, head burying into the lee of her neck, and despite the fact that he remained at her back, fully clothed, she felt him everywhere – one hand at her breast, mouth at her throat, his hips and savage arousal, chest pressing and that palm…forever demanding and…
“Ernest…” she cried.
“I see you, Hebe.” His hand abandoned her breast for her hair, twisting and curling, tenderly tugging her head up. “Open your eyes and see yourself.”
She obeyed, lashes crawling upwards.
Reflected in the ornate gilt mirror, a woman moaned in rapture. An unknown woman. Beautiful and decadent as she arched in a handsome man’s embrace. His expression was of torment, jaw gritted and eyes so very carnal, so extraordinary in their need.
And it was that look, that overwhelming need that cast keening pleasure surging through her. It bowed her spine, brought a cry to her lips, snaking, pulsing from that grinding palm, bursting to every far-flung tip.
Her lashes slammed shut, the dark behind her lids no longer frightening but filled with heavenly and sinful delight.
Little by little, his palm slowed, fingers trailing, but every now and then, her skin juddered as though scorched by naked flame despite the sluggish lassitude encasing her. She sagged, held solely by the man behind her.
Her skirts fell, silk slipping down her legs, and she felt her bodice raised, still aware of his torrid arousal.
Would he lay her down on that bed of crimson and take her now?
WITH CARE,Ernest rightened Hebe’s attire, brushed back curls and stroked her cheek – no longer pale but flushed a dawn pink.
Her eyes were shut tight, her breathing harsh, and he wondered what thoughts now crowded her mind.
Never had he witnessed such bliss, such freedom, and he burned, ached, for the same but…
Hebe’s frame shuddered, her head laying back upon his shoulder in languid exhaustion, and so with a final kiss to her shoulder and a last peek into the mirror, an image to hold for ever, he took a step back and then bent to lift her into his arms.
A half-hearted yelp sounded so he kissed her hair, whispered assurance, before striding over the Turkish rugs to the bed. There, he gently placed her upon the coverlet where she splayed as though too exhausted to even turn. Her lips murmured as he removed her half-boots, mumbled as he eased the trapped hair from beneath her.
Doubtless, a seasoned libertine would now wake her with persuading kisses, or disrobe her and take his pleasure, but he knew this was not the hour.
His need was for Hebe bright-eyed and sure, confident and desirous, not muddled by gratification or overcome with lassitude.
He dreamed of Hebe touching him, not just watching but keen and affectionate, her fire reducing him to ash.
Cornflower eyes blearily opened. “I expect you want–”
A kiss to her lips. “I want you to sleep, my delicious Hebe.”
And he grinned as her confused gaze gradually shuttered.
Reaching for the far side of the coverlet, he then folded her within it and watched as she grunted, turned, snuggled, stuck out pretty stockinged toes and then sighed, her breath slowing to slumber.
Ernest likewise sighed, but with a little more…torment, and crawled from the bed.
Scratching at his jaw, he paced the room. Picked up a book. Put it down. Peered at the painting. Counted his sweepstake winnings.
Counted them again.
In Latin.
