Page 29 of The Damsel
She paused mid-stroke, the brush pressed against her hair. The curls began to frizz as they dried, leaving her looking like some wild goddess, the flames turning the blond tones to pure gold.
“Another thing other women might enjoy that I do not Mr. Stanley … empty flatteries.”
He frowned, taking a step toward her before remembering he stood there in only his drawers. Clearing his throat, he took up the counterpane and wrapped it around his shoulders. Then, using one hand to keep the blanket closed over his body, he used the other hand to push his small-clothes down around his ankles. Then, he knelt to gather the clothing and approach, careful to use the blanket as a shield.
And it was, indeed, a shield—against her probing eyes and her notice of the erection growing between his legs. The sight of her standing about nude affected him in the most primitive of ways, and he did not wish to flaunt it.
“I did not say it for the sake of having something to say."
He offered her his clothes, then lingered near the fire to soak in its heat.
Already, the feeling had come back to his toes and he was quite warm beneath his counterpane.
“The word ‘beautiful’ gets thrown about so casually, it has no meaning any longer,” she said while spreading his clothes out over a small loveseat facing the fire, smoothing her hands over them as she did. “It’s used against every empty-headed chit to make her feel special, when the same word is applied to trees and flowers and the sky. In truth, it reduces a person to being no more than an ornament to their surroundings, and I have no interest in that.”
Her words spoke to a deep-seated part of himself—the part that had longed for people to see him as more than the ‘pretty’ Stanley boy, the one people only wanted to be around because he was pleasant to look at. He had very few close friends because of it, the interest of others proving shallow at best.
“I didn’t mean to be cliché,” he said. “It is just … well, instead of saying that, I ought to have said that I think your hair is quite the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. Not quite blond or red … sort of gold at times. Your eyes, too … not blue, but not gray either.”
To his surprise, she smirked at him, the expression both teasing and mischievous. “Mr. Stanley, are you calling me a conundrum?”
A little chuckle bubbled up in his chest. “You are, indeed. Which is why …”
Staring into the flames, he bit his tongue, cursing himself for almost embarrassing himself yet again. What was it about being in her presence that made him want to spill his every secret—even the deep, dark thoughts he’d never whispered to another soul?
She turned to face him, letting her hairbrush drop to the floor, the grayish glint of her eyes turning to molten silver as if heated by some internal fire.
“Why what, Robert?” she asked, taking a step toward him, then another.
A lump rose in his throat, swift and hard, making it difficult to breathe let alone speak. Her breasts swayed with every step, the pink tips earning his full attention. They were the perfect caps for the teardrop-shaped orbs, and he remembered them being quite sensitive to the touch. Her reaction when he’d teased them with his tongue had been electrifying.
She took hold of the counterpane wrapped around him and gave it a sharp tug, yanking him even closer. He sucked in a sharp breath and struggled to stay on his feet, the throbbing organ between his thighs making it difficult to think. She was touching him, pulling him close and looking at him as if ready to devour him whole.
Heaven help him, he wanted to let her.
“Tell me,” she demanded, a sharp command thinly veiled under a seductive purr.
And just like that, she’d snared him like she had that night at the White Cock. He’d do or say anything to have her touch him, command him, rule him.
“Why I haven’t stopped thinking about you since … that night,” he murmured, lowering his gaze to her lips. “I have tried for four long months, but to no avail. You have been like a fever in my blood, always raging with no relief in sight.”
A cat-like smile curved her lips, and she used both hands to cast the counterpane aside. He stood naked before her, every bit of him exposed—including the cockstand pointing straight at her as if to indicate that the thing it wanted stood right there.
Her eyes glittered even more, her gaze sliding down his bare chest and abdomen before landing on his cock.
“Have you thought about how I fucked you?”
“Y-yes,” he stammered, nearly doubling over when her fingers closed around his shaft. “God, yes.”
“Have you stroked this cock to the memory, wishing for it to happen again?”
His head fell back and his eyes slid closed as she gave him one long stroke from base to tip, her thumb smoothing over his swollen head.
“Constantly,” he confessed. “Almost every night since.”
She met his gaze while still working his cock—up, down, that slow drag of her palm over his flesh pure torment as he fought not to thrust into her hand.
“What if I told you that you could have a favor from me? Anything you wish, in exchange for your attempt at saving my life tonight. I might not have been drowning, but you didn’t know that. I think you deserve a reward regardless.”
