Page 24 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

I kiss him lightly on the lips. “I’m teasing you.”

His gaze drops again. “I see that.”

I laugh softly. “You know what I mean. Ultimately, I’ll decide, but I do find your quandary…” I run a finger down his chest. “Delightful. Which is wrong. I shouldn’t take such pleasure in your … discomfort.” I slide my hand down to the front of his trousers and squeeze the hard bulge there.

His growl comes again, rougher now. “Where is the seamstress?”

“Only in the back rooms. Not far enough away.” I unzip his trousers and slide my hand inside, fingers wrapping around him.

“Yet you persevere,” he says.

“Should I stop?”

“An observation, not a complaint.”

I stroke his cock and when I tug it from his trousers, his breath catches.

“Tell me to stop,” I whisper against his ear.

His gaze shoots to the dressing screen, concealing us from the back rooms.

I tickle my fingers along his shaft. “Say the word.”

“I can hear anyone approach.”

“You’ll need to pay attention to the front door as well. Can you manage that?”

He groans as I stroke him. Then I move closer, the folds of my gown hiding my hand.

“There,” I whisper. “No one can see, so even if we are interrupted, I can finish.”

“You are such a—” He bites off the words, and I laugh.

“One day you are going to complete that thought,” I say.

“One day I will not be able to help myself.”

“Oh, a challenge? What can I do to make you complete it? Pleasuring you in a seamstress’s shop isn’t enough. Perhaps it’s the way I’m pleasuring you. What if I got down on my knees—”

He cuts me off with a kiss, pushing against me as I stroke him. His hand rises to my neckline and, before I realize what he’s doing, he’s tugged down the dress and the corset, enough that one breast pops free, the cool air of the shop making me gasp.

He cups my breast, lifting it from its trappings, and my gaze slides to the shop door.

“There’s a window,” I whisper.

“I know.”

I nibble my lower lip, moaning as his fingers tweak my nipple. The window is filled with dresses, and I can barely make out light beyond, but I’m keenly aware that we are not entirely hidden.

“Someone could see,” I say. “If they peer through the glass.”

“Then you should probably tell me to stop.” His lips lower to mine, hovering there. “But you won’t.”

I whimper, and he groans, pushing against me.

“Wanton little…” As usual, he doesn’t finish, but that’s enough, making me gasp. I do feel wanton, and he’s right—I won’t tell him to stop. But he’s not telling me to stop either as I stroke him, his breath coming faster.

His free hand moves to my other breast, and again, a deft tug and it’s free. He puts his hands under my breasts and lifts them as he moves back, not enough to break my hold, as I keep stroking, my grip tightening.