The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

She stood. She’d changed from her sodden gown into a warm chemise with an embroidered robe over it. She could hear the beat of blood in her ears.

“Is that what you think? That I’m offering myself to you in payment for services rendered? Don’t be daft, Oliver.” She took a step toward him. “Do you think you’re the only one who has been wanting these last months? The only one who lies awake, watching the ceiling, wishing for more? Look at me. I’m not a sacrifice.”

Her heart slammed, but she reached up and undid the tie of her robe. He watched that piece of silk slide to the floor, his eyes hungry.

“Look at me,” Jane repeated. She slid the robe off of her shoulders—she could scarcely breathe—and let it flutter down. Her skin prickled in the sudden coolness, but it wasn’t cold she felt. “I’m not a gift,” she said. “Or a prize that you’ve won. I’m a woman, and I want you because it will give me joy.”

He was looking her up and down. She knew how sheer her shift was—translucent enough that he’d be able to see the form of her body silhouetted with the fire behind it.

He licked his lips. “I had every intention of being a gentleman. Of sleeping on the floor, or…or something.”

“Is that what a gentleman would do?” Jane asked.

“Probably.”

“Then gentlemen are idiots.”

He laughed. “Jane. God. You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”

She took a step closer. “I scarcely have the wherewithal to be brave about this.” Another step, until she was close enough to set her hands on his chest.

“Do you know what to expect?”

“Only in the vaguest terms. The specifics…” She reached out and gently, very gently, took hold of his cravat. “The specifics,” she repeated, “I’m looking forward to discovering.”

“Then discover.”

She undid his cravat, winding the fabric from around his neck.

“See?” She looked up. “I didn’t know that—the look of your throat.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss in the hollow there. The points of his shirt brushed wetly against her cheeks.

“Jane. You’re killing me.”

She hadn’t understood what to do until she heard his voice—that hard rasp, so clearly indicating he was on the edge of his control. This, this was what she wanted. To kill him with every brush of her fingers, and to have him love it.

She pushed back the collar of his still sodden coat; he shrugged his shoulders, relinquishing it to her.

She’d seen men in their shirtsleeves before, but never like this. Not with the fabric practically translucent from rain, outlining the smooth curve of bicep and tricep. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat, slowly reveling in the glimpses she caught through the fabric—the slim tapering of his waist, the hard feel of his abdomen when she brushed her hand against the fabric of his shirt.

He hadn’t moved, except to assist her in removing items. She was glad of it. He stood still, as if he understood that she needed to uncover him, little by little. To get used to the idea of what would happen. To let her touch before he touched her back.

The shirt proved more complicated. He had little silver studs at the cuff, and it took her some time to untangle the wet mass from his person, even though he gave her a little help. But when she had it off him…

Just the hint of his flesh through the shirt had made her mouth dry. The reality of him—of all that taut muscle, of the arrow of hair tracing down from his navel, the darker nubs of his ni**les…

She reached out and set her hand on his skin.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re still wet. Of course you’re still wet. And cold.” She took the towel he’d abandoned and dabbed at his shoulders. His arms. Feeling it all as she went, that hard, smooth body of his, dangerously curved and yet waiting motionless. Allowing her to explore her fill of him. She dried off his back and addressed herself to his front.

He hissed as she rubbed his abdomen.

“Did that hurt?”

“On the contrary. It felt rather good.” He looked her in the eyes. “Touch me there again.”

He hadn’t moved, not one inch, but he wasn’t letting go of control. His skin was warming under her caresses, the color changing from chalk to a faint blush. She touched him, traced that line of hair vanishing into his trousers, felt the firm muscle tense under her fingers.

“Am I doing it right?”

“You’re doing… Yes, Jane. Keep doing that. Please.”

She ran her hand up his waist. Across his chest. When her fingers brushed his nipple, he hissed again, and she took a moment for further exploration. He responded to her touch, his flesh tightening, hardening. His breath shivered as she rolled the hard nub between her fingers, touching it the way he’d touched her earlier.

Oh, if only she’d paid better attention, cataloguing what he’d done.

What was it he’d said? That if he had her in a bed, he would…

She leaned forward and licked him.

“Oh, Jane.” His hands closed around her shoulders.

“Was that…should I…” She pulled away. “Should I stop?”

“Lick me anywhere you like.”