Page 39 of Ravishing Camille
He crossed one leg over the other and placed a firm focus on his coming business meeting. Or at least he tried.
The third morning, she rapped on his door just as the sun rose. She was barefoot, hair haphazardly pinned up, but she had donned her elegant silk top and trousers. The pattern was one he’d not been able to appreciate fully the other night in the dark. The violet with tiny peacocks of orange and red drew his eyes and his appreciation.
“You like my pyjamas?”
“I do.” He recognized the print as one from the Bombay area.
She strode into his sitting room and yawned. “You’d better, because I am tired. And you look…plain.”
He was dressed himself in white raw linen top and trousers. “I can have a set of these made for you. But only if you like this practice. Otherwise, your outfit will do well.”
“Agreed. So. I’m ready. Teach me.”
She was young and flexible. But she was not used to bending to touch her toes or to stand, warrior pose. Nor did she wear anything underneath that silk and when he touched her ribs to straighten her stance for warrior, he felt the fullness of her breast beneath his fingertips. And damn. She did not move. She made no remark, but waited for him to react.
It took the willpower of a saint not to snatch away his hand or to cup her breast—and to position her arms in right angles. Worse was the way the silk blouse fell around her neck and exposed the arch of her back, the points of her spine and in profile, the full curve of her breast and the points of her large pale pink nipples.
He burned. He fought. He argued with his cock.
“Sit now,” he told her in some other man’s voice. “Like this.”
He readily sank to the Turkish rug and pulled his own shirt fully over his raging erection. His mind could not reach serenity. His body could not cool. He did not breathe.
She sat, all nubile temptation, peeking at him from one eye. “You seem to be a statue.”
And hard as one, too.
“I don’t know if I can sit for long.” she told him.
“If you give it a few minutes, you can get into the flow. Try now. Five minutes.”
She had been good and sat for more than the five. When she arose, he offered his hand and she grinned at him. “I will try again. Tomorrow.”
“Ah. My attempt is not in vain.”
“Never. Teach me anything. I am ready.”
What he wanted to teach her would shock her to her core. “I’ll remember that. Coffee now.”
She raised a finger in the air. “Bath first. See you in half an hour.”
* * *
If she could have run to her room, she would have soared like an eagle, screaming in frustration. She thrust open her sitting room door and fell back against it, gasping for sanity.
As if they were on fire, she tore off her blouse and stepped out of the trousers.
She lifted her breasts and thumbed her nipples, yearning for his fingers or better, his mouth. She clamped her thighs together, her flesh wet and empty. She let one hand drift down to separate her folds and she tapped the rigid pearl that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
How could he touch her like that? So accidentally? So carefully. So quickly. As if…as if she were porcelain. Cold to his touch. Indifferent.
She walked to the wall pull and yanked the cord to summon Ivy. She needed a bath. Water. Soothing and hot. Inside her. As he should be. How could bending her this way and that and thrusting in odd poses and having his hands all over her bring her peace?
He must be a monk.
While she’d become a lunatic.
She paced her bedroom like one. Eager, full of raw desire for what she could not have. And why?
