Page 82 of A Certain Appeal
When I nod, his stubble scrapes against me. “Do I?”
“Hm.” He peels the jacket from my shoulders, smoothing the leather to rest at the bend of my elbows. I start to straighten my arms—
He pulls me roughly to him by my jacket, and I gasp. My arms are pinned to my sides, and my pulse leaps at the sudden restraint, lacing my desire with a rush of adrenaline I can taste. Darcy nudges my head aside with his own, pressing a kiss below my ear. “No.”
A fresh jolt of surprise lances through me, sending all erectile tissue to delightful attention. He just said no.
He kisses lower, moving along my neck in a blazing path of lips and teeth and tongue. My breath catches, and he lifts his head, bringing his lips to mine. The relief is exquisite and immediate and not nearly enough; it’s like trying to release a dam through a keyhole. My arms ache to hold him to me, to reciprocate, but his grip and the leather keep my arms bound, useless at my sides. The loss of controlis unfamiliar and exhilarating, making every muscle below my belly button clench.
But I still have control of my body. I arch into him, searing myself against him from sternum to pelvis, savoring the solid resistance of his torso and abdomen. I angle myself further, grinding against his hip—
Darcy groans.That is not his hip.
He relaxes his grip, easing the jacket from my arms, and breaks the kiss to toss it onto the rim of the tub behind him. He takes stock of my dress, the deep V of the neckline and the buttons running from just above the center of my bra to an inch below my navel. He’s seen it before.
He meets my eyes. “Do I still have permission?” I nod.
I stand as still as my thundering heartbeat will allow as he undoes the top button, his knuckles grazing the insides of my breasts. Not being allowed to touch him has gone from challenging to cruel, but the standard has been set.
“Do I have permission?” I rasp.
He runs a finger up and down my sternum, plucking at the center of my bra. I forget to breathe. He shakes his head slowly. “No.” His voice is distant. He drags his finger down farther and releases another button.So nimble.“Not”—another button undone—“yet.”
He drops to his knees. I blink in surprise, and his eyes meet mine. His pupils are so dilated, I can’t tell where they end and his irises begin. Returning to the task at hand, he undoes the fasteners below my rib cage. He parts the material, kissing the skin between my bra and the top of the garter belt as his fingers continue their downward path. I dig my nails into my palms.
My buttons undone, his hands smooth down the sides of my skirt. He passes the short hemline, moving to my unsteady knees beforereaching to my hamstrings, then up again. Cool hands meet the bare skin above my stockings, then cup my backside. He glances over the sensitive area between the back of my thigh and the bottom of my ass, and I have to rest against the window for balance.
Darcy traces along the elastic bordering the legs of my undies, halting at the straps of my garter belt. “Are you still wearing what you had on at the show?” His voice is rough. I grin.
Darcy groans, wincing as though pained, and presses his forehead low against my abdomen. He releases his hold and stands, moving his hand under the fabric at my shoulder, guiding it back and away from my body to reveal the cup of my bra. The rhinestone pastie glitters. “Oh, Bennet,” he breathes.
I watch him study me. It isn’t the bleary ogling of a guy freely enjoying eye candy or a lecherous glance at forbidden fruit. He saw me in this—less than this—just over an hour ago, yet his gaze is nothing short of reverent. It’s as though I’m the lucky one to be looked at like this, rather than his being lucky for getting to view.
He blinks, eyes darting to the other side of my dress, as though he’s just realized that breasts come in pairs. He pushes the dress aside and off my shoulder. I pull my arms free of the long sleeves, leaning away from the glass to let the dress fall to my waist. Darcy’s hands glide down my sides, trailing along the elastic at the top of my garter belt, then push the dress down to fall from me completely.
Now Iamdressed exactly as I was at the show. But I’m not performing a role, not riffling through preplanned responses. It’s just me, being undressed by a man I want desperately. It’s not unlike the high I get from being on the stage, but there’s more to it. It’s intimate. It’sreal.
“Do I have permission?” It gives me a new thrill to have to ask, now that he’s established the risk I’ll be turned down. When he nods,I nearly swoon with relief. I get to work, shaky hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. When I finish, his hands quake against me, too.
We kiss, and his shoulders shift as he helps me remove the pristine button-up, lips parting from mine when I pull too hard to free his shoulder from his collar. The loss of contact makes me blink, and I’m suddenly aware that this is the first opportunity I’ve had to see him shirtless.
I rest against the glass to better appreciate the view. With the light coming in from the city, he’s another incarnation of yesterday’s urban Adonis. He is every bit as solid as his topography felt, his trim torso defined but not bulky, with a fine dusting of chest hair. His rib cage expands and contracts rapidly, intercostals shifting with each quick breath.
I press my hands to his sides, feeling the muscles ripple and the rumble of his responding groan. His skin is soft as I glide my palms around to the broad spread of his lats. “You still row?” I ask, breathless.
He leans in, forearms braced on either side of my head, caging me against the glass. His forehead presses to mine. “Five mornings a week.”
“You’re fantastically proportioned. Climbers are all lats.” I bring my hands to his chest, pressing into his pectorals. I watch the flesh give. “They don’t havethis.”
His laugh gusts against me, only to be sucked back in through his teeth when I trail my nails down his stomach. My fingertips light at his waistband, and his head drops to my shoulder. Sweat has beaded on his forehead.
“Do I have permission?” My mouth is dry. He nods against myshoulder, his hair tickling along my jaw. I undo the tab, the button beyond, and finally take hold of the zipper below.
I feel every notch in the zipper track as it descends, letting the heel of my hand brush against his hard length. His breath hitches, the same sound that challenged my fortitude in the coat check. I reach into his open fly, molding my fingers to the impressive thickness enclosed in what I hope are boxer briefs.
“Please?” I ask, voice thick.
He picks me up. I wrap myself around him, relishing the heat of his firm abdomen between my legs. He turns to the bed and drops to his knees on the mattress, laying me against the comforter still bound to him. We kiss, the warmth and weight of him making me shake with the need for release. His hand grips my thigh, running along the suspender strap attaching my stocking, and the clip releases.
