“Yes, quite,” he said. “Will you let me?”
She looked away from him. “You know there is nothing I wouldn’t let you do.”
If ever mere words could bring him to his knees, those were the words. He wanted to sink down before the tub, hold her face in his hands, and kiss her, mask and all. He turned around and looked for a towel in the drawers instead.
He opened one and held it out, as he’d seen Durbin do countless times. “Come.”
Slowly she rose, water cascading from her, her skin flushed, her body as beautiful as that of Cabanel’s Venus: dainty breasts, a deep navel, and hips so voluptuous they melted his vision.
She leaned forward to climb out of the tub. He couldn’t look away from her nipples—erect and the most erotic shade of muted pink.
She wrapped the towel around her person. As she dried herself, he retrieved her robe and held it out for her. She turned around and dropped the towel. He had a fleeting view of her back and her round bottom before she shrugged into the robe.
The robe was of a shade too deep to distinguish in the scant illumination, of a material that glistened darkly, the shimmer of new moon on swift water. She pulled the sash tight. No, no nineteen-inch waist here. But she had delicate shoulders and an elegant neck. And there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head. The bath was small and the radiator large. He himself was far too warm in his clothes.
He blew out the candle. “Take off your mask.”
He’d bought the mask the same day he’d bought the painting—and had nearly given both to her together. Then he’d come to his senses and swore he’d throw the mask away. But he never did.
“What for?” she murmured, even as he heard the soft shush of her sleeves against her hair, her fingers working on the knot behind her head. “You can’t see me.”
He didn’t answer that. He turned her around by her shoulders and cupped her face in his hands. With his fingers, he explored her features, as if she were virgin territory and he a captivated cartographer.
“I don’t need to see you,” he said.
He only wanted to remember the texture of her skin, flaws and all. To know the warmth of her cheek and the pulse at her temple. To etch the topography of her face upon his memory—the sweep of a brow, the softness of an earlobe, the slightly chapped fullness of a lower lip.
“Kiss me,” she murmured.
“Only in my dreams.”
He felt his way to the chair and sat down. “Come here. Sit on me.”
Utter silence greeted his blatant words. Then she let out a slow breath. “You seem to know exactly what you are doing. Have you done this before?”
He braced his feet apart. “No. But I’ve imagined it.”
And imagined it. And imagined it.
She emitted a faint, strained sound. He heard her move in the dark. As she groped for the chair, her hand landed on his forearm. She immediately let go. She turned around and sat down on the edge of the chair, between his legs, almost not touching him at all except for one hip at his right knee.
“Move back until you are against me.”
She complied. He ground his teeth at the sensation of her barely clad backside pressing into him—he was as hard as a bludgeon.
“I won’t touch you anywhere else,” he said, less a promise to her than a reminder to himself.
“I wish you would,” she said.
“Shhh. Not another word out of you.” Or he’d lose his mind.
He parted her robe. His fingers encountered soft, still-damp curls. She obligingly opened her thighs. His heart pounded like a caught thief’s. His hand reached farther.
She was damp there too—but not from the bath. He expelled a shaky breath. So soft, silky, and sleek. So impossibly arousing. I wish you would. He could. There was nothing to stop him.
He closed his eyes. No, he’d made a deal with his conscience. He would touch her only to pleasure her, not himself.
Gingerly he caressed her where she was most moist. She sighed, a sound that made his ears burn.
“Show me what to do,” he said. Or perhaps he begged.
She pressed her hand over his and guided his fingers, sliding his index and middle fingers around plump, lovely flesh. She leaned back and rested her head on his shoulder. The sensation of her hair brushing his jaw and cheek was almost more than he could stand. He was in Heaven. He was in Hell. He was hot and hard and dying for relief, and she, without a care in the world, whimpered and moaned, her breath fluttering against his earlobe.
“Harder,” she said. “Do it harder.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. He sounded desperate.
“You won’t. Do it harder.”