Page 82 of While You Were Spying

“Do you want me to stop?” His finger sketched a lazy circle as he imagined how her skin would feel bared to his touch. “Let me show you.”

She hesitated, and Ethan ceased the motion of his finger. He didn’t want to influence her, persuade her. He wanted her to crave him as much as he craved her.

And he did crave her. Craved her so much he ached when he looked at her. He was mesmerized by her expression, a provocative mixture of the seductive and the innocent—her eyes too pure for him to question her inexperience, yet too darkly beautiful for him to resist their beguiling promises.

He waited, body taut as a piano wire, until, with aching sweetness, she once again touched her lips to his. At their joining, a tremor reverberated through him.

He lifted her skirts higher, now trailing his fingers in the wake of the fabric. She leaned into him, her lush body molding itself against his. Slowly, he slipped his legs between hers, hands coming to rest on the bare skin of her upper thighs as he eased her onto the wooden plank of the makeshift desk. She gave him a startled look, and he felt her hand, still resting on his neck, shift uncertainly. Then he ran his palms along the front of her thighs, down to her knees, and she arched, thrusting her neck into the crook of his shoulder with a soft moan.

He paused, welcoming her reaction and the feel of her silky skin under his fingers. He could imagine what she felt at that moment: the hard, smooth wood against the bare skin of her bottom, the cool air rushing along her bare legs where he’d lifted her skirts, and the touch of his fingers as he slid them from her knees along her sensitive inner thighs.

When he reached the juncture of those thighs, he pushed gently, coaxing her to open for him. At his slight insistence, she seemed to come to her senses.

“No. You shouldn’t.” Her voice was thick and low.

His fingers dipped, tangling in the soft hair under her skirts. “You know how to stop me,” he murmured, lowering his head so that his cheek rested against hers. He put his lips to her ear and felt the thick chocolate curls that had come loose from her upsweep brush silky against his chin. “Open for me,cara.”

Her head lolled back, and though she didn’t move her legs, he felt the muscles relax. He kissed her just under the line of her jaw, lips playing against the responsive skin as he eased the fingers of one hand between her legs, parting her with the other. He felt a jolt course through her when his finger touched her and then a small tremor.

She was moist, ready for him. With a slow, deliberate stroke, he caressed her, attuned to her every reaction—the quickening pace of her breathing, the trembling of her body, the small gasps as she clutched him, now with both hands.

“What’s happening?” Her words were punctuated by sharp intakes of breath.

“I’m touching you,cara.”

The fingers that had rested on his neck dug into the muscles of his shoulders, and he knew she would not stop him now. Knew she felt too much pleasure to go back.

“You like this,” he murmured against the velvet of her neck. She writhed against him in response. “This is pleasure,” he whispered. “I would fill you with pleasure. Fill you with me.”

With a swift stroke, his finger entered her, and her slick folds tightened around him. She moaned as he moved his thumb to the place where he knew she throbbed.

“I...I can’t think,” she gasped.

“Don’t think,” he directed, breathless himself. “Just feel.”

Shifting restlessly, she clutched him tighter, crying out, then plunging herself against him. “Oh, Ethan,” she cried as he stroked her. “Oh—” Her eyes met his, dark with stirrings of desire. “I knew you were bad,” she sighed, pushing against him.

“You have no idea.”

He moved his fingers deftly against her, taking her higher, measuring her reaction to gauge her pleasure. He could feel how close she was to climaxing again, and lowering his mouth to hers, reclaimed her lips in a penetrating kiss. She responded immediately, pulling him closer. And once again he was enveloped by her—rich and sweet and making him hunger for more. Through the haze of desire, he heard her knocking on something. For a moment he thought she had kicked one of the barrels supporting the wooden plank where she sat. But the sound continued.

Insistent.

He tore his mouth from hers. Devil take him if the knocking wasn’t coming from outside.

“Damn!”

Someone was tapping on the tack house door.

“My lord?” He heard an all-too-familiar male voice.

“A moment,” he answered. In one swift motion, he stepped away from Francesca, threw her skirts down, and, lifting her, set her down on the floor to the side of the makeshift table.

He flung himself into the rickety chair, ignored its loud squeal of disapproval. “Enter.”

The door creaked open, and Pocket peered through the shadows, white handkerchief in hand so his fingers did not touch the door handle. “I am terribly sorry to disturb you, my lord.” The valet stepped gingerly into the tack room. “But there is a matter we must discuss. I am afraid it cannot wait and requires your full attention.”

“What the hell is it?” Ethan scowled and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A quick glance at Francesca showed him her cheeks were flushed, her hair disheveled, and her dress wrinkled. She looked as though she’d just awakened from an erotic dream, pupils wide, gaze misty. She’d been attempting to straighten her gown but clasped her hands behind her back as soon as Pocket entered.

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