Page 4 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Tempering the stab of hurt at his words, she shook her head. “Not only because of that,” she said. “Am I not permitted to like you merely for yourself? Come.”

She gestured to the bed and he sat on the edge. Then she slipped off her gown, slowly, while his eyes widened in anticipation. His breath caught as she unlaced her undergarments and shrugged off her corset.

There was no need to play the seductress and ask if he liked what he saw. Wonderment shone in his eyes and his lips parted as she removed her chemise to stand, naked, before him. Before she could temper her body’s reaction, her nipples pebbled as he flicked his tongue out to moisten his lips. Then she stepped toward him, coaxed him to stand, and reached for his jacket.

He let out a low cry as her nipples brushed against his chest while she peeled off his clothes, layer by layer, until he stood before her, as naked as she.

“Sweet Lord, Dahlia,” he said, his breath catching. “Y-you’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” He reached for her mask and she turned her head aside. Then he retreated.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I-I forgot.”

“It matters not.”

She climbed onto the bed and it shifted under his weight as he settled beside her.

“What must I do?” he said. “I-I mean…I know what happens, but I don’t know how to begin.”

“You begin by kissing,” she said. “Kiss whatever part of a woman’s body you think will give you, and her, pleasure.”

He reached for her face, but she shook her head.

“The only woman you must kiss on the lips is your wife,” she said. “Kissing is the most intimate act of all.”

“More intimate than…?” He gestured to her body.

“Yes,” she whispered, “for, rather than a mere union of bodies, it represents a union of souls. Now—where would you like to kiss me?”

His gaze wandered over her form, then the color of his eyes darkened.

“Y-your…” His voice wavered, as if he felt shame for what they were about to do.

“You can tell me,” she said. “A woman likes it when a man speaks of the act of love, when he tells her what he wishes to do.”

His body seemed to vibrate with restraint until, at last, he reached toward her.

“I-I should like to kiss your…your breast.”

“Then kiss my breast.”

She leaned back, her skin tingling with anticipation as he lowered his mouth to her breast. He placed a light kiss on the skin, then, when she murmured her encouragement, he ran his tongue over her nipple and suckled hard. She drew in a sharp breath as treacherous pleasure swelled within her.

“Dahlia?” he said, lifting his head.

“That’s good,” she said. “Very good.”

Smiling shyly, he lowered his mouth again and continued, before giving his attention to her other breast. Then he hesitated before delivering an array of tiny kisses across her belly, moving lower, toward her center. He placed his hands on her thighs and, when she murmured her assent, he parted them, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the heady scent of desire that filled the air like a thick fog.

He brushed his fingers across the inside of her thighs, then stopped as his fingertip flicked at a bump on the skin of her right thigh.

“What’s this?” he whispered.

“A mole,” she said. “A blemish.”

“It looks like a flower—a tiny pink flower.” He lowered his head and kissed it. “No blemish,” he said, his hot breath fanning a flame across her skin. “It is a part of you, and therefore exquisite. I must worship it.”

He continued to kiss her skin and little growls of pleasure rumbled in his chest. His voice, usually light and gentle, had taken on a hoarser tone, that of a man in readiness to take a woman. And when he shifted against her, she felt his length, hard and hot, against her body.

“I think, perhaps, it’s time,” she whispered, reaching for his hand.