Page 33 of A Perfect Gentleman

He felt an intense need to caress the lush blue satin, to trace the embroidered figures with his fingers, to slide his hands along the wide sash that delineated her waist. Everything about her was soft and rich and inviting. Even her hair was twisted around the crown of her head in a fashion so precarious it seemed it might come tumbling down at any moment. His fingers itched to pluck those absurd shiny red sticks from the knot and watch it fall. When she had done exactly that, it had taken his breath away.

He knew he must have sounded like a bumbling rustic every time he opened his mouth. It was a wonder he had been able to speak with any coherence at all. Everywhere he looked, soft sensuality teased at his senses. The low glow of the lamps, tinged with the warmth of the gossamer scarf thrown over one, the door standing slightly ajar so that he could look into her bedroom without really seeing anything at all, the touch of her fingers on his arm. It was easy to get lost in watching the movement of her lips. Even the sound of her voice set something thrumming inside him.

“You’re trying to seduce me,” he said, and the smile she sent him made him feel both foolish and hungry.

“I am,” she agreed, unembarrassed. “I understand your reservations. Your scruples. Whatever you may think of me, the truth is I don’t want to harm you or make you do something you dislike.” She reached out to take his glass and refill it. “I have heard that alcohol will make one more amorous.”

He made a noncommittal noise and took a drink, watching her with a curious combination of wariness and eagerness. Whatever else this woman was, she excited him. Abigail slid closer.

“I know it must be difficult for you since you don’t want this. Don’t want me.” She laid her hand lightly on his chest. It might have been a burning brand, the way it felt.

“Abigail . . . you needn’t—” he began, his voice thick.

“No, I have given it a great deal of thought.” He missed the words that followed, because she slid her hand across his chest and all thought left his brain. The next thing he heard was, “Don’t think about me. Pretend I am someone else.”

Little likelihood of that. Right now she was the only person he could think of—or see or feel or smell. And sweet heaven, but she smelled delightful. He circled her wrist with one hand, sliding it up over the lace and silk of her gown.

She edged nearer, her hand gliding over his shoulder, her voice soft. He could feel the brush of her breath against his skin as she leaned toward him. “Clearly you are able to separate your emotions from your desires when you go to, um, ‘professional’ women. So I thought perhaps you could pretend that I was one.”

“What? Pretend you are a . . .” It was ludicrous. Demeaning. It sent the blood roaring through his veins.

Abigail nodded. “Your mistress. Or a woman you bought for the night. From a bordello, say.”

“Abigail, no.” He shifted in his seat. He must stop; there were things they had to agree on, rules to establish. He should move away. Or at least stop stroking his hand over her arm. And he definitely should not move his other hand to the wide satin sash at her waist. “What you’re saying is absurd. Wrong.” Almost unbearably arousing.

“What would you do there?” She trailed her forefinger up the side of his neck, and he could not control a tremor. He closed his eyes, not sure what she might see in them. “You would relax, wouldn’t you? Take off your jacket?” She went up on her knees and reached across him to grasp the other side of his jacket and ease it back off his shoulders.

He moved forward to let her pull the jacket back and down his arms. He opened his eyes and looked into hers. There was no longer any question of ending this. The only thing on his mind now was what she would do next.

He saw her eyes spark as if she had read his thoughts, and the faintest smile curved her lips. “Then this, perhaps?” Her fingers went to his ascot, unfastening the stickpin and sliding the folds apart with a whisper of silk.

“And surely your waistcoat would be unfastened.” She began on the buttons.

His eyes locked to hers, Graeme laid his hands on either side of her waist, spreading out his fingers and sliding them up the wide sash until they were tantalizingly close to her breasts. When his hands curled around those luscious orbs, she drew in a sharp little breath that almost undid him.

Graeme glided his thumbs over the sleek satin of her dressing gown, stroking the nipples beneath it. The buds tightened, pressing against the cloth, and Abigail’s eyes fluttered closed, her fingers digging into the cloth of his waistcoat.

Heat speared him, and with a little groan that was part hunger, part surrender, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her.

Abby had thought she knew what to expect, but now she found that she had not, could not have, prepared herself for the rush of sensations pouring through her. His mouth, his hands, his heat . . . the raw need that suddenly blossomed low inside her, aching for something unknown, but with the deep certainty that only he could provide it.

Graeme’s arm was hard around her. She was not sure she could have stayed upright if not for that, for every part of her body seemed to be melting, consumed by the fire he caused in her. What would have been alarming, if she had been able to form a rational thought, was that she was happy, even eager to be lost in him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on in the torrent of pleasure. His kiss went on forever, and when at last he pulled his mouth from hers, she started to protest. But then his mouth was finding such interesting places to explore, roving over her neck and down to the swell of her breasts, that all that came from her lips was a sigh of satisfaction.

His hand roamed down her front, sliding between the sides of her dressing gown and nudging it open. He curved over her breasts and down onto her stomach, his skin searing through the thin cloth of her gown. His fingertips traced the circles of her nipples and moved to the shallow well of her navel. Slid even lower.

Abby drew in her breath sharply as he delved into the crevice between her legs. It was startling and embarrassing . . . and so very delightful that she found herself opening to him, hoping he would do more. Graeme’s breath rasped against the soft flesh of her throat as he aroused her with teeth and lips and tongue, and farther down, his fingers caressed and teased until she felt almost desperate. She turned her face into his shoulder, sinking her teeth into him.

She felt the tiny jerk in his body and heard the low sound he made, and she feared she had done something wrong. He would pull back. Leave her. Instead, he surged up from the sofa with her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Settling her onto the bed, he untied the sash of her dressing gown and spread the sides apart.

Leaning over Abby, one hand braced against the bed, he ran his hand slowly down the length of her body, his gaze following the path of his fingers. His face was slack, his eyes dark and hungry. When he reached the hem, he slipped his fingers beneath the material and started back up her leg, his skin like fire against hers. The cloth pooled before him as he moved upward, exposing the long line of her legs.

Abigail suspected she ought to feel embarrassed—and perhaps she did, a bit—but far more than that, desire flowered in her at the touch of his eyes, and she knew that what she wanted was to be completely naked before him, to see the passion rising in him at the sight of her. To know in the most elemental, clearest way that he wanted her.

Graeme pulled the dressing gown down from her shoulders. She sat up to make it easier, and as he turned to toss the robe away, she pulled her nightgown up and off. Graeme turned back and saw her, his eyelids drooping lower as he studied her.

“Abigail . . .” He sat down on the bed beside her, tracing the line of her collarbone with his fingers. “You are so beautiful.” He bent and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her ears, her throat, his lips velvet soft and lingering.