Page 9 of The Spinster's Seduction(The Lover's Arch #4)

To Evelyn’s relief, Charles arrived promptly the next afternoon, forgoing whatever his pleasures might have been in order to join her.

“You do me unwarranted credit,” he said lazily when she asked if he had intended to spend his day in any other way. “I am a man of such idle disposition that I rarely stir myself for anything other than pure necessity.”

“You stir yourself for me.”

“I do. Take that as the compliment it is.” He grinned, the expression rakish and a little overwhelming. She was not a woman often given to fancy, and she knew that Charles was not handsome beyond the common way. Yet when he smiled like that, so that a dimple appeared in his lean cheek and his eyes danced with such hidden, unrestrained mirth, she felt as though he could have no equal.

Her chest felt oddly tight, and she hesitated a moment before leading him upstairs.

“I thought we might be less likely to be disturbed in my dressing room,” she said. “And it leads rather conveniently into my bedroom, which has a bed. I can only assume—” She drew a deep breath. “My maid has been sworn to secrecy, and she is the only one who knows.”

“My dear, if such subterfuge were necessary, would it not have been better for me to have hired a hotel for us both? ”

“A hotel?” She glanced at him, startled. “Why would we do such a thing?”

“I believe it is often customary if a gentleman and lady are wishing to remain undetected.” He slid a hand through the crook of her arm, and although she knew they had done far more intimate things, she could not erase the feel of his fingertips pressing against her bare skin. “But no matter. We’re here now, and I doubt anyone will think anything of me treating the house as though it was my own. I’ve been coming here since I was a lad, after all.” He smiled at her reassuringly, and her courage, which had faltered at the mention of hotel, gained in strength once more.

While she was not in the habit of receiving callers in her dressing room, she had done on occasion, and Charles had been one of them. Her father, knowing of their longstanding friendship, had not demurred. And Charles had never overstepped any boundaries.

This time, they intended to overstep them all.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, shutting the door firmly behind him. An adjoining door led to her bedchamber, and she turned the handle, feeling foolish, though she had nothing particularly private on display. He caught her arm as she made to walk inside. “We don’t have to get straight to business, you know.” His fingertips trailed from her jaw down her neck to her pulse-point. “Seduction is not all about how quickly one begins the act.”

“Do you want to kiss me again?”

He smiled down into her face. “I do. Very much. But I thought we might have some conversation first.”

“About what?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she thought she saw his eyes darken. His fingers still rested lightly against her pulse, his touch neither clammy nor too hot, and she wished she could keep his hands on her forever. Everything he did, when it came to her, was just right.

“About what you want,” he murmured, the sound lower and gruffer than before. “With our hands, we will give one another pleasure, but we can do so with our words, too.”

She frowned. “ How so?”

“For instance.” He half-laughed, then brought her face up to meet his, his eyes heavy with raw, naked lust, potent as a draught of whisky—perhaps even more so. “I want you, Evie,” he breathed, and the words crackled over her skin, addictive and terrifying in equal measure. “I have thought of nothing but you since last we parted. You consume me, and I burn for you. Every second I’m not kissing you is a torment, and I implore you . . .” He bent lower, so his mouth almost grazed hers. “Ease my suffering.”

An odd sort of heat rose in her. Embarrassment at being addressed in such a way, and more of that empty feeling inside her, that aching wanting that had assailed her before.

Words. She liked words. She enjoyed the way they tasted, the way they made her feel, as though she was for once powerful. In a world that seemed designed to strip women of their autonomy, this sensation of power was intoxicating.

And yet . . .

“Do you mean it?” she asked.

“Ah, Evie. You cannot ask a man that when he is trying to make love to you.” He groaned a little, and brought his mouth down on hers, the kiss ferocious. Surprised, she brought her hands up to his face, holding him still as she attempted to process the intensity of the sensation. The way he opened her lips with his, the urgency of his tongue as it claimed her mouth, the way he bent over her, pressed against her, his hands fisting in her voluminous skirts, as though he was trying—and largely failing—to prevent himself from eliminating what little distance still lay between them.

Evelyn brought her hands against his chest, and a moment later, he stopped, resting his forehead against hers. “Charles,” she said.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” He whispered the word, breath hot against her face.

Foolishly, her heart ignited at the confession. She knew better than anyone that Charles could not be relied upon in matters of the heart—or rather, matters of desire. His tastes were varied, and he tired of his lovers almost as soon as he gained them. He had admitted as much to her the last time they had come together.

And yet to know that a man who had seen so much still wanted her , though they had been friends for so many years, made her head spin and her reckless heart rejoice.

“Then do not hold back,” she said. “I want to know everything.”

Everything . She did not know what the word meant, Charles knew; there was so much more to pleasure than he could show her in just a few hours. So much more than he could show her in days, though he wanted nothing more than to devote his next week to her pleasure and his.

More than that, he wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms, and wake to the sound of her breathing. Domestic bliss had never seemed likely to him, but such a thing would be possible with Evelyn.

Do not offer for me .

In his weaker moments, her words tormented him. He knew she would not accept even if he did offer, and there was another lady set to become his wife. Vile, obnoxious thought. What lady such as Rosamund could satisfy him with her coldness when he had the object of all his youthful desires standing with her palms on his chest, her face turned trustingly up to his?

Confound it. He could not take her here, not like this.

“Your hair,” he said, reaching behind her to unpin it. “I prefer it down and around your shoulders. It looks like moonlight.”

“How poetic.”

“You may make a romantic out of me yet.” He stepped back, largely to give himself a chance to cool down a little, and admired the effect of her sleek hair falling down past her shoulders. She had aged gracefully, her skin still soft and supple, the lines around her eyes invisible except when she smiled .

And her eyes.

Heaven help him, her eyes would be his undoing. So large, filled with desire he had no problem reading. Having her wanting him was the greatest aphrodisiac a man could need.

He had watched age stroke gentle fingers across her face; he had seen her mind develop and grow and mature; he had come to admire every part of the woman she had become. And he ached for her.

When he kissed her again, she responded instantly, and he picked her up, barely breaking the kiss as he carried her through to her bedchamber and placed her carefully on the bed. She blinked up at him.

“You were able to lift me,” she said blankly.

“Did you think me incapable?” He reached down for the buttons across her bodice, impatient now. “I don’t know if that is a slight against you or me.”

“Well, I am by no means small, and you have a slim build.”

“When the mood takes me, I do fence, though I confess to not being a boxer. Does that disappoint you? Am I unmanned in your eyes?”

“I doubt you could ever do that,” she said with captivating honesty.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he said to himself as he finished the buttons of her bodice and assisted her with lifting it over her head. On her lower half, she wore skirts, and underneath petticoats, a tightly laced corset, and underneath it all, her chemisette. Too many layers, in his opinion, but he had ample experience in removing them, and after easing her skirts and many petticoats down her legs, she was left only in her corset, chemisette, and drawers.

If he had not already been aroused, this sight alone would have been sufficient to produce the desired effect. She did not have large breasts, but the corset made the most of them, and her hips flared deliciously below.

She had freckles across her shoulders. What a detail he had not known before.

But although he wanted nothing more than to rip the remaining clothes from her, he paused and looked at her. The flush on her cheeks, and the brightness in her eyes marred by hesitancy .

“You are magnificent,” he said. “I would like to see all of you. Would you let me?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, fingers tight on the lace of her drawers. “Yes, please.”

He nodded and stepped back, giving her space. “Would you like to remove the final layers yourself?”

Relief flooded her expression at the control he had just handed back to her. Interesting, and yet not surprising. He ought to have known that Evelyn, who prized her independence, would be more comfortable holding the reins of their interactions.

And it entertained him just as well to watch her quick fingers as she unlaced her corset. His cock throbbed, but he did his best to ignore it. He would not rush her, or make things about himself. The reason wanted this was so that she could know pleasure, not so she could learn how best to please him.

As she removed the final layers of her clothing, he sucked in a breath at what she revealed. Soft, pale skin, untouched by sun or wind or the gaze of another man. Small breasts, the nipples already peaked, her hands moving from them to the soft roll of her stomach, then lower, to the thatch of hair below, as though not sure what to conceal.

He felt a little like a drowning man, lost beneath the waves; she was his last breath.

All these years, he had wondered how she would look divested of her clothes, her starched propriety. His Evelyn, his —

Only she was not his. At least, not for very long. Not long at all, certainly not long enough. He would have her only for a matter of days. He would have her and ruin her, and perhaps himself be ruined for all time, because this here was everything his youthful self had dreamt of, and having it come true in such a way made his chest ache in a new, undefined way.

Her hands fell away, to the bed on either side of her shapely hips, and she looked at him with her familiar, wonderful bluntness.

“You are silent,” she said .

He gathered the remnants of his composure, knowing he must do this for her if not himself. “Speechless, my dear, is not the same thing.” He drank her in, wishing he could live in this moment for the rest of his life, then cursing himself for the whimsical nature his thoughts had taken. “You are delectable.” He resisted the urge to move, though God knew he wanted nothing more to take her into his arms. Making love had never been what he was about; there was little enough of love in the pleasure he found at the hands of his paramours, and heaven knew he had felt no love for them. But with Evelyn, the enormity of what they were about to do hit him anew, like a man standing on the tracks as a train chugged towards him. His feet were tied; he was helpless to stop the inevitable.

She looked at him steadily. “I believe it’s your turn.”

His turn. He laughed, feeling a trifle foolish, feeling a multitude of things he had not expected to feel at the sight of her—desire included but far from the primary emotion—and removed his clothes as quickly as he could without tearing at the buttons like a madman. Then he, too, stood naked before her, and she looked at him with rounded eyes.

It had been a long time since he had weighed himself against a lady’s curious stare. He had not been self-conscious for a little while, not since he was a boy, certainly, but she had a way of seeing straight through him. She always had.

He kept silent, giving her time and space to fully absorb the differences between their bodies. Where she was rounded and soft, he was spare almost to the point of thinness.

She frowned as she raised her gaze from his erection to his chest. “You do not resemble the statues.”

He choked a laugh. “In which ways do I disappoint?”

“Not disappoint,” she said, and her gaze fell again to his crotch. “It’s just . . . different.”

Tenderness bloomed in him, and he came to kneel before her. “Are you certain you’re comfortable?”

The line between her brows deepened as she glanced down again. “I think I understand how this works,” she said slowly, “but I am not altogether convinced it can be pleasant. ”

“Well, so it would not be if I were to enter you without proper preparation. Remember what I said yesterday, that preparation is often more enjoyable for the lady than the event itself? Today, we will focus on that.”

“That alone?”

“Well,” he allowed, because his blood was racing, and by the devil he was not certain he could do the decent thing and resist if she proved she wanted it too, “we shall see. That won’t be the primary focus, at least.” He guided her down so she lay on her back across the bed, and gently rested his hand on the soft swell of her belly as he lay beside her. She sucked in a breath, as though this was more than she had bargained for. He longed to take her small breasts in his hands, squeezing and kneading and learning what she found pleasurable, but he would have to wait. Again, he would have to wait.

What sweet torment. Yet when he finally had her, the anticipation would make it all the better.

“Now,” he said. “I would like you to touch yourself.”

“I? Myself?” She turned her head so she faced him. “What do you mean?”

“Here.” He took her hand and placed it where his had been. Then, using her wrist, he dragged it slowly down to the thatch of hair below. “Before allowing me access to your body, you should know how it feels to be touched there. Understand yourself a little more before you give me leave to do the same.” He smiled. “And then you may know a little more of what you like, so you might guide me.”

A frown touched her brow. “But I wanted you to help me learn.”

“And so I will.” He slid his fingers down to hers, just grazing the tip of her folds, the wetness there making his stomach clench. “Here,” he murmured, trying to keep his composure, though every instinct screamed at him to plunge inside her. “Draw small circles. Find what pleasures you the most. Explore yourself.” He removed his hand so he might watch her better. “And then you can instruct me on how best to touch you.”