Page 80 of The Art of Sinning
She wore no drawers beneath it. She wore nothing at all.
His pulse jumped into a stampede.
Almighty God in heaven, never had he seen a woman with such curves. It wasn’t just her ample breasts with their velvety, carmine-tinged nipples, though he did enjoy those. It was also the lush hips that he couldn’t wait to grab hold of and the creamy thighs that would put Titian’s Venuses to shame. It was the thick thatch of umber curls that hid the delicate flesh he’d tasted only nights ago.
When he saw the beauty of her nude form, more enticing than that of any model he’d ever painted, he grew even more desperate to show her how dangerous this was, how dangeroushewas. He had to bring her to her senses before he lost control entirely. He must drag her down into the depths with him, as he’d nearly done at the brothel, and show her just how coarse he could be. That ought to send her running for the door before she lost her virtue.
And if it didn’t?
Then God help them both.
Nineteen
If there’d been any doubt in Yvette’s mind that Jeremy wanted her in his bed, it was laid to rest. His eyes smoldered with an unholy heat that made her yearn and burn and want things she’d never dreamed she could have.
She’d expected to feel shy in front of him, even embarrassed. But what woman in her right mind could feel ashamed when the man whose touch she craved was looking at her likethat?
And sporting such a large bulge in his trousers. She’d heard it was considered good for a man to be... prominent there. Though she didn’t understand why, she was certainly willing to find out.
“I had it wrong,” he said in a low growl, his gaze eating her alive. “You’re not Juno—you’re Circe, the witch who turns men into beasts.”
Circe, the seductress. Yvette rather liked that.
Trying out her seduction skills, she cast him what she hoped was an alluring smile. “Are you turning into a beast?”
“See for yourself.” Pushing away from the door, he unbuttoned his shirt and dragged it off. As he went to work on his trouser buttons, she let her eyes feast on the glory of his bare chest.
As with every other aspect of his appearance, it would put a Greek god’s to shame. It was chiseled and broad, with a dusting of dark blond hair that tempted her gaze lower to where his lean stomach looked firm enough to sustain a pile of bricks, and his hips...
Well. No woman in her right mind would complain about that man’s hips.
Then he slid off his trousers and drawers in one fluid motion, and her every sense went on high alert.
Oh my word.
The rod of flesh rising from a bed of bronze curls was monstrous. No wonder the slang dictionaries jocularly called it a “yard”; it was massive. She couldn’timaginetaking it inside her, no matter how long it actually measured.
Fighting for calm, she said, “I assume that sculptors are terrible students of anatomy.”
“What?” he asked, clearly startled.
“On statues, the men’s privates are... well... small and demure.”
“Demure.” He uttered a choked laugh. “That’s because the men aren’t aroused, sweetheart. An aroused man looks very different from a man with his prick at rest.”
Prick. Such a vulgar word. Even Grose’s entry for it spelled it with dashes.
“Your... er...”
“Prick,” he supplied in a coarse voice. “Surely that shows up in your cant dictionaries. You can’t even say the word, can you?”
He was daring her, and she never backed away from a dare. “Of course I can say it.” She tore her gaze from its impressive size to look him in the eye. “Yourprickis clearly not at rest.”
Somehow, just speaking the naughty word aloud excited her, made her want to be wicked and wanton and all the things a lady should never be.
As if he could tell, his face grew shadowed, and he said, with a hitch in his voice, “Come here, Circe. I’m eager to feel your hands on my prick.”
She moved closer. “I can see how eager you are.”
