Page 32 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Emil’s bathing routine had never been so rushed.

He briskly toweled his damp hair, slapped on some aftershave, and confined his penchant for flexing shirtless before the mirror to once.

He tugged on pants and a flannel shirt, but didn’t bother with anything else.

The promise of a wood stove and a warm woman was all he needed to stave off the winter chill.

He padded barefoot to the living room, then paused, struck by what he found.

Olive was curled on his sofa as though evenings like this were already a habit of hers.

Despite the steady heat radiating from the stove, she’d built herself a cozy nest: blankets gathered around her, pillows propping her back, a magazine spread across her lap.

She idly turned the pages with her injured hand, the mug of tea gripped in the other.

A lock of hair slipped forward to graze her cheek, and Emil’s fingers itched with the irresistible urge to brush it back.

The image should have been ordinary. It wasn’t.

It pulled him toward her with a force he didn’t fully understand.

How had this shy little wallflower upended him so completely?

He’d spent years in raucous bars and glittering ballrooms, and none of it had ever felt like this.

None of it had ever made him ache the way a simple evening in her company did.

With Olive, he wanted things he hadn’t wanted before.

Not just laughter, or flirtation, or the shallow thrill of pursuit.

He wanted to know her moods, her silences.

He wanted to make her laugh, to coax her temper, to feel the weight of her leaning into him.

He wanted things that both unsettled and compelled him, yet he couldn’t resist them.

Couldn’t resist her. For better or worse, he needed to know what would happen if he let this continue—if he let her in.

He shook his head slowly, almost in disbelief, before stepping into the room.

“Comfortable?”

She looked up. “Very.”

He cleared his throat and hunted for something—anything—to say. His gaze fell to the magazine on her lap. “The American Bee-Keeper, eh?”

“I didn’t want to become too engrossed in anything,” she admitted. “Though one particular issue of Vogue was very tempting.

“Take it home with you,” he suggested, grasping the topic with relief. “Hell, take a stack. Robbie can look at the photographs. Perhaps he’ll even be inspired to try reading them.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

“Not really. They’re just collecting dust here.”

He lowered himself onto the sofa beside her.

The cushions shifted under his weight, bringing them close enough that her knee brushed his thigh through the blankets.

She stilled, then lifted her cup to her lips, her fingers trembling lightly.

Emil reached for the magazine, and his index finger grazed her palm.

She didn’t pull away. Good. Progress. He took his time closing the magazine and setting it aside before turning back to her.

Her hand hadn’t moved, but her expression had shifted into one he recognized at once. The sight of it brushed aside his own unease and replaced it with something much stronger: the need to comfort her, to ease whatever troubled her, to let her know she was safe with him.

“Go on,” he said lightly. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What you’re worrying about.”

She wrinkled her nose, adorably sheepish. “How did you know?”

“You have a few tells.” He leaned in, touching lightly between her brows. “A little furrow appears here.” His finger drifted down the curve of her cheek. “Sometimes you flush. Sometimes you pale.” Then he tugged gently at her ear, and her gaze snapped to his. “And you won’t look me in the eye.”

“I have trouble with that, sometimes.”

His lips quirked at her confessional tone. “I know. I don’t mind.” She smiled then, open and unguarded, and heat flared through him in response. Goddamn. Her smile unraveled him every time. “So go on.”

“No one wants to know what goes on inside my head.”

“I do.” When she shot him a doubtful look, he met it steadily. “If your tears didn’t scare me away, your fears certainly won’t.”

“Stop making valid arguments,” she huffed. “How am I supposed to say no to that?”

“You can’t. Just tell me one. The biggest one, the one that makes you hesitate the most and—”

“Pregnancy,” she blurted out.

“Brave girl,” he murmured, and he watched, fascinated, as a blush bloomed up her neck.

“That is a concern, but we can take measures to prevent it. I always wear a condom. Do you know what that is?” She nodded, her cheeks a bright rose.

“It isn’t foolproof, but there are other ways. I can pull out. We can use a sponge.”

“You’d do all that for me?”

“Of course.” He glared at her. “Never let a man touch you who won’t do the bare minimum to protect you from unwanted pregnancy. Do you hear me, Olive?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But...doesn’t it feel strange?”

“A bit, but it’s worth it.” He leaned into the cushions, studying her carefully. Considering what she wasn’t saying. “Olive, we don’t have to have sex at all.”

Her face fell. “Oh, but I—”

He snorted. “I meant penetrative sex. We can still share pleasure without risking pregnancy.”

Her relief was obvious. “Yes, I think that’s best for our first time.”

Our first time.

His stomach clenched at the inadvertent promise in her words. It sent a rush of relief through him, because he knew, before he’d even touched her for the first time, that it wouldn’t be enough. That he would want more. Need more. Need her.

“And Olive—” He reached over and cupped her cheek. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure you enjoy my touch. But if you don’t, for whatever reason, you tell me. I’ll stop at once. No argument. No hesitation.”

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “All right. Should we… go to the bedroom, or…?”

“Let’s stay here.”

Her brow furrowed. “On the sofa?”

The sofa was safer. It would keep him from wanting too much, too soon—from overwhelming her with everything he ached to give.

The narrow space would force him to focus only on her, her comfort, her pleasure.

And more than that, moving rooms might only give her more time to retreat into fear.

Better to begin here, where she already felt at ease.

“Don’t I need to undress?”

“Not this time.” He plucked the mug from her hand and set it aside.

Then, he removed one of the pillows from behind her back and tossed it to the floor.

“Lie back, and put your legs across my lap.” He waited for her to scooch into position before slipping a hand under the blanket, beneath the hem of her skirt, to rest on her ankle. “It’ll be fun this way. Like a quest.”

She gave him a skeptical look, but her lips curved faintly. “If you say so.”

His fingers traced up her leg, pushing aside her petticoats, until he found her ruffle-edged garters.

With a practiced twist, he unhooked it and began rolling her stocking down her leg.

He couldn’t wait to feel her thighs, her supple calves.

God, how many times had he dreamed about them wrapped around his waist?

He would stroke them, tease them, ease them apart until she was quivering and ready for more.

Except…with each inch of skin revealed, Olive grew increasingly rigid.

He paused his exploration and glanced up. “Relax,” he said soothingly.

“I’m trying,” she whispered, her voice tight.

Damnation. This wasn’t what he wanted for her. Not stiff compliance, not strained nerves. She deserved to melt. To burn. To revel in her own desire. Either she was swept away, or rule number one forbade him from continuing.

He rubbed a hand over his brow, scouring his brain.

How did one seduce a virgin? None of the women he’d been with before had needed to be romanced; they’d all known exactly what they wanted and what he could give them.

That was how he’d preferred it, but once again, Olive was changing how he did things. How he wanted to do things.

Kisses. She needed kisses.

Wasn’t that how he’d made her hear music?

He bent to brush his lips against hers, to encourage an encore of the first time.

She opened at once, inviting him in, but there was no fire.

It galled him to admit that their kiss was tepid at best. Something was still holding her back. But what? What was he doing wrong?

And then he realized.

Every time she had softened for him, every time she’d flushed and melted, it had been after he’d praised her.

Complimented her. Drawn attention to something she’d done well.

It hadn’t mattered if it was begrudging or heartfelt—they all had the same impact.

His k?raste responded to words. For her, they were as potent as touch.

He wasn’t certain she knew that about herself; he was certain she wouldn’t know how to ask for it.

A ripple of unease tightened his abdomen. He’d never been a talker in bed. He much preferred to let his body control the conversation. But if Olive was willing to overcome her discomfort, then so would he.

“Your legs are like a gazelle’s,” he announced roughly.

“What?”

Ah, hell. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Your legs. I think about them a lot.”

“You do?”

“Often when I’m supposed to be working. Or sleeping,” he admitted, gaining confidence with her rapt attention. “The first time I dreamed of you, they were wrapped around me. I woke up hard as a pickax, and I had to take myself in hand before I could sleep.”

Color rushed to her cheeks, but her legs softened marginally across his thighs. “You dreamed of me?”

He shot her a look. “I dream of you far too often.”

“Is it always…carnal?”