Page 89 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
His grim look eased. “I can help it. And I won’t hurt you, if you’ll but trust me.” He extended a hand.
She shut her eyes again. She had no weapons, had seen none in his chambers, but she could scream. She was not in the wilderness. In a great house, someone would hear. Someone would come to help her.
When she opened her eyes, he had seated himself, hand still reaching for her. “Come. Come sit upon my lap. We won’t have that particular lesson tonight. I promise.”
His tone was as flat and pompous as any tutor’s. She came and took his hand and made as if to sit across his legs.
“No,” he said. “That is, if you please, Gracie, you will command me better if you sit...” he pushed her skirts up, lifted her and turned her facing him, straddling his lap, “like this.”
His eyes had darkened. His mouth was grim. He seemed to be in pain.
She had heard that men felt pain if they could not relieve themselves. She had heard that lesson: do not excite a man; do not tempt him past a point of justice.
Justice.She’d done nothing to tempt Rigo. She’d done nothing but resist Rigo. She’d all but put a sack over her head to be modest around him. If Rigo had felt pain, it had not been her fault.
Charley’s expression shifted again. “It’s me, Gracie. It’s Charley. I won’t hurt you.”
She nodded.
“Look at me.”
She searched his eyes.
“Now look down.” He pushed her skirts higher and left his hands to cup her hips. “You see your power over me?”
“Any woman has this power over you.”
“And you have this power over any man.”
“Perhaps, but I would not—”
“I know. And I’m not such a tomcat as you might think.” His thumbs moved along her hip bones, swirling warmth into her. “Before that monster, you said you’d been kissed.”
A shiver went through her, memories rushing in. “There were boys I danced with. There was one who took me outside and kissed me.”
“And you liked it?”
Heat rushed her cheeks. What she remembered was her father’s anger, and that he’d been right, and later, Rigo’s actions had proved what could have happened with that first boy, had proved the rightness of Papa’s anger.
But that night, before the shame, she’d felt the pleasure.
She shrugged and he quirked one eyebrow.
“Will you take off your robe?”
She nodded, and he pulled the bow of her belt and pushed the garment off her, letting it fall to the floor.
His gaze burned a path from her eyes to the dark patch of hair between her legs. He had pushed the nightrail high to unveil it.
“Ye gads, you are a dream.”
Her heart thudded. She was a dream, until the brand was bared, and then she would be a nightmare.
He leaned in and his soft lips distracted her, pressing, burning, nudging her with his tongue until she’d opened for him. The long, languorous kiss was demanding, convincing. Pleasure sparked through her, melting her tension, and his hands slid higher, circling her breasts. Time stood still and then galloped, mirroring her pulse, her breath. He broke away and kissed a path down her neck, tasting her breasts, taking her nipple, nightrail and all, into his mouth. Pleasure shot through her, a lightning bolt, from her breast to the point between her legs. She bucked against him, and felt his hard rod, and scooted back.
He unlatched from her nipple and touched his forehead to hers. “Did I hurt you?”
“No...I...” She didn’t know what to say. “Did I hurt you?”
