Page 70 of Never a Duchess
Molten heat flashed in his eyes. He reached out, cupping her cheek, drawing his thumb slowly over her lower lip, surrendering. “I’d need more than a few hours to give ye a full picture.”
“Then we should not waste another second.”
“Tell me about this experiment.”
A fire crept up her neck, but she had to be bold. “As you know, I’m a lady who must satisfy her curiosities.”
“Aye, but ye’ll only satisfy them with me,” he growled.
“I hoped you would say that.”
Don’t be afraid.
If he can pleasure you in the theatre, you can do this.
“You’ve shown me what it’s like to be at a man’s mercy.”
“Atmymercy,” he corrected. “Don’t think any other man could make ye feel the way I do.”
She bit back a smile, loving these jealous outbursts.
“If I’m to understand life in the Highlands, you must understand the ways of an English woman with a daring spirit.”
He frowned as she perused his muscular form, stretched on the sofa like a god of Olympus. “What do ye mean to do?”
“Pleasure you.” The metal buttons on his breeches shone in the candlelight. She shuffled closer. Despite her trembling fingers and his sharp intake of breath, she undid the first button, eager to set him free.
* * *
Callan didn’t stop her.
Though his mind said otherwise, his needy body refused to let him intervene. He watched her slip the last button, his chest heaving like he’d run three laps around Hyde Park.
“I’ve seen a sketch of how this works, but I’m unsure of the mechanics. A series of sketches would have given a much better picture. You must tell me if I do something wrong. If I fail to please you.”
God, she stole his breath and drove him wild.
The last few hours had been pure torture.
The tender embrace they’d shared on the roadside in Bermondsey changed everything. This was not a game. It had moved beyond the need to test a theory. He wanted more than rampant kisses. He needed more than a few stolen minutes of pleasure.
He needed everything.
Her mind, her body, her soul.
Even now, even after her heartfelt confession, he wasn’t sure she could satisfy him on an emotional level.
Maybe he expected too much.
Maybe the trauma of witnessing his parents’ volatile marriage made him crave perfection.
Lillian Ware was not perfect.
She was intelligent and stubborn. Beautiful and damaged.
In a word, she was incredible.
“Every touch pleases me,” he said, his voice low and throaty as she peeled back the placket of his breeches. “But this would have been easier had I worn a kilt.”
