“You spend all your time bent over those garden beds in your greenhouse,” he told her. “You’ve got a knot right here.” He pressed a spot in her back, and her breath hissed out. “And right here.” Another sore point. “And…well, you get the drift of what I’m saying. You carry around all the day’s labors in your flesh. Let’s see if we can’t get you to set them down for a few moments.”
She might have thought that he had no more interest in her than in loosening those sore spots. He could have made it more sensual. When he leaned over her, he might have brushed his body against hers. When he pushed his thumbs into those knots, working them, he could have kissed the back of her neck…and sensitive as it was, so aware of his flesh so close to hers, she would have shivered. He might have worked his hands not just along her back but down the sides, finding her br**sts, the erect nubs of her ni**les. She was aware, so aware of all the ways he wasn’t touching her. Of all the things he could do. Of how vulnerable she was under him—how little effort it would take for him to push her against the cushions and hold her there, no matter how she protested.
She wasn’t even sure she would protest.
But he’d promised her that he wouldn’t importune her, and so he didn’t. His touch warmed and then it loosened—and then, gradually, she found herself drifting into a state of contentment.
After a while, he pulled away from her. “There,” he said. “I knew it. You’re smiling.”
She turned over onto her side and he sat next to her.
“But you want more.” She could see the outline of his erection even against his loose trousers. “And…” She was afraid even to admit this much, but she didn’t want to hide it from him. “And you’re making me want more. And that means…”
“It means whatever we say it means,” he said with a shrug. “Want is not destiny. We’re adults. It should be fun to want.”
“But what is the goal? What are we working toward?”
“Your complete and utter surrender,” he intoned.
She sucked in a breath.
“I won’t be truly alive,” he continued, with a mischievous look, “until I’ve feasted on your virtuous flesh and sucked the marrow from your bones.”
Violet jabbed him in the ribs. “Very funny.”
“You see? You don’t believe I want anything dire. Not really.”
He might say that, but he wouldn’t be satisfied if this was all he ever had from her. A few touches at night? He could say it was fun to want, but after two weeks of wanting, he’d start to lose his warm good humor. That’s when the remarks would start—a few snide remarks about how frigid she was, how selfish to withhold her favors. He’d mention how long it had been since his last release. Men weren’t made for celibacy, and Sebastian least of all of them.
She opened her mouth to respond, and then shut it again. It should be fun to want, he’d said, but it had been a long time since she’d faced the idea of want with anything except dread. Want was a tool that was used against her. The less she wanted…
“Sebastian,” she said. “We can’t keep on like this.”
“Why not?” he answered back. “If matters get dire over here, I’ve got a working left hand.” He glanced over at her. “You have the same.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t?” he asked innocently. “Well, then. I can help you out with mine.”
She let out a scalded breath at that thought—at the notion of his clever hands sliding between her legs, finding the pinpoint of her desire—but he just leaned down and kissed her.
Chapter Nineteen
IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING, and despite the summons in his pocket—and Sebastian could not call that terse note anything except a summons—Sebastian felt unnaturally cheerful.
He was smiling as he was shown into his brother’s study; even Benedict’s careful indifference, his refusal to look up as Sebastian entered, couldn’t dampen his good mood.
He’d made up his mind the last time he’d seen his brother. It did no good to argue with Benedict. He’d tried his damnedest; there was no point upsetting his brother.
His brother paid him no attention for another five minutes, and eventually, Sebastian seated himself on the other side of the desk and began to whistle.
It was a cheap younger-brother trick, but an effective one. After the third off-key iteration of God Save the Queen, Benedict’s annoyance outgrew his ability to ignore Sebastian.
“Can you stop that?” Benedict demanded, finally looking up.
“Stop what?” Sebastian asked innocently. “Was I doing something?”
“That awful warbling.”
“Oh, sorry,” Sebastian said with just enough excess apology dripping from his voice. “I didn’t realize you disliked Queen Victoria. I should have picked a different tune.”
“I like the queen—” Benedict stopped. Despite himself, his lip twitched up in a smile. “No, Sebastian. You’re not going to get me that way.”