Page 171 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

"Do you respond to commands?" she asked.

"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes I give them. Kiss me, Imogene. And we'll see who winds up on top."

"Is it a battle, then?" she breathed.

"A skirmish, perhaps," he said. "If we do it right."

A skirmish. She could handle that. A good way to think of it. A limited engagement. Not serious. And she would be the one to fire the opening shot. "Stop talking now," she said and kissed him.

As soon as his lips touched hers, she knew she was lost, though. Hopefully he would be, too. The best she could hope for was a draw, perhaps. Mutual satisfaction before they had to part. His mouth was warm and firm on hers, and she made a noise of pleasure.

That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. He lifted her as easily as she might lift a child and carried her through the darkened house, earth-lights flaring to light his way. She dimly registered the lights and the fact that they were moving upstairs, but as Jean-Paul apparently had a goddess-granted ability to walk, carry her, and kiss her at the same time, she paid little heed to anything but his mouth.

She made another murmuring sound of protest when he stopped kissing her to set her down at the foot of his bed, but given that letting go of her gave his hands freedom to roam over her body, she quickly became distracted again.

His fingers found the buttons at the back of her dress. "Buttons," he muttered. "Why do clothiers enjoy tiny buttons so much?"

She laughed. "Perhaps they wish to remind you men to take care when you have a woman's buttons to hand." Then she recalled the size of his hands and the size of the particular shimmery round buttons that graced this dress. It had taken Dina a few minutes to do them up, and she was well practiced with women's clothing.

"Do you need some assistance, my lord?" she asked.

"I can manage buttons," he muttered, but he did sound a little exasperated. "Or I have a pocketknife."

"This dress cost a small fortune," Imogen said. She clutched the bodice as it started to loosen. Obviously he had made some progress. "If you come at me with a knife, you'd best be prepared to defend yourself.”

"Savage little thing, aren't you?"

"When it comes to defending the honor of my wardrobe, yes," she retorted. "I spend enough time in uniform that I appreciate wearing something pretty now and then."

"And I appreciate seeing you in something so lovely. But right now, I'm rather eager to see you out of it. Ah!" He made a pleased sound as his fingers stilled. "All done."

"Good." She let go of the bodice. The dress, with some small assistance from a wriggle of her hips, slid to the floor. Jean-Paul tugged at the ribbons that fastened the layers of petticoats to her waist, and they slid down to join the dress.

She took a breath, her heart pounding hard enough that she was somewhat surprised her corset strings didn't snap. But before she could worry too much about that, Jean-Paul's fingers skimmed down her back, and then he set to work on her corset as well. It took him less time than the buttons before he eased it apart, leaving her with only a shift and her underwear.

"So many layers," Jean-Paul murmured from behind her. "You are like a gift to be unwrapped, Imogene."

Right then, she felt more unraveled than unwrapped. As the heat of his hands grew more palpable with each layer of clothing he removed, she felt as though she might just melt down to become a puddle on the floor like her clothes.

She wanted him. Wanted him under her mouth, beneath her hands, wrapped around her. Wanted skin and sweat and sensation.

"I was never much good at unwrapping gifts," she said, turning to face him. "Too impatient. My mama used to call me greedy." She tugged her corset away from her body and shimmied it off. "Right now I'm greedy for you."

She'd never known that gray could be warm. But his eyes were, their depths inky and deep. His chest was rising and falling fast, too. It was still hidden from view beneath his shirt—he'd taken off his jacket when they'd arrived—but it seemed he was impatient, too.

She reached out and put her hand flat on his chest, seeking his heart. It might never be hers, but she would have the memory of it beating hard to her touch.

"Take me to bed, Jean-Paul."

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