“And what do you hide from? What are your truths?” It was a taunt as much as it was an admission. He wished he could see her eyes, which never seemed to hide as much as the rest of her.
Because she was not entirely this woman, queen of sin and night. She was not all the confidence she played at. She was not all the power in her poise. There was something else that made her human. That made her real.
That made her.
But they played this game nonetheless, and he did not dislike it.
He simply liked the glimpses of her truth more.
He set the parcel aside. Leaned forward. Down. Lifted one of her slippered feet from the floor of the carriage, up into his lap. He ran his fingers up over her ankle, enjoying the way the muscles tightened beneath his touch. He smiled. As still and calm as she pretended to be, her body did not lie to him.
He wrapped his hand around her ankle, slid the black slipper from her foot, revealing pretty black stockings. He traced his fingers along the bottom of her foot, loving the way she flexed against the touch. “Does that tickle?”
“Yes,” she said, on a breath that tempted more than it should.
He continued his exploration, letting sliding fingertips along silk, over the top of her foot and along the ankle. Hinting at her calf before retracing his path. “Here is a truth; the first time I saw your slippers—outside the Worthington Ball—I wanted to do this.”
“You did?”
There was surprise in her words. And desire.
“I did,” he confessed. “I was drawn to your pretty silver slippers, all innocence and beauty.” He played at the ball of her foot with his thumbs, and she sighed at the sensation. “And then I was drawn to something entirely different—those stunning heeled slippers, all sin and sex.”
“You followed me?”
“I did.”
“I should be angry.”
“But you aren’t.”
He slid his hand to her ankle again, and up her calf, loving the soft silk there, fingering the pretty white stitching on the stockings, wanting to lift her skirts and see her legs, long and clad in black. Wanting them open. Around his hips, his waist.
Wanting her.
“Are you?” he prompted.
She sighed. “No. I am not angry.”
“You like that I know you. All of you. The two halves.” His touch reached the back of her knee and the caress there seemed to unstick her.
She shifted, lifting the other leg, pressing her other foot against his chest, pushing him back. Staying his touch. “Tell me another.”
“Another?” he asked.
“Another truth,” she said.
He captured the foot at his chest, lifted it, pressed a hot kiss to the inside of her ankle, letting his tongue lave the soft fabric there until she sighed. “I want to take these stockings off you. I want your skin, softer than silk.”
He nipped at her ankle, loving the gasp she let loose in the carriage, suddenly hot as the sun. “It is your turn.”
She stilled. “For what?”
“Tell me your secrets.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know where to begin.”
He knew that. She was filled with shadows, each one protecting some piece of her. Each one in need of light. “Begin with this,” he said, sliding his hand up her calf to her knee, following it with a swirl of his fingertips. “Tell me how it makes you feel. Without artifice.”
She laughed as the he tickled her. “It makes me feel—” When she stopped, he did, too, pulling his hand away from her. She stretched her leg after him, as though she could catch him. Return him. “It makes me feel young.”
He did return to her then, surprised by the word. “What does that mean?”
She sighed in the darkness. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t, stroking again. And again. “What does it mean, Georgiana?”
“Just that—” She stopped. Her foot flexed against his chest, and he wished they were at his home. He needed more space. He needed to see her—touch her—at will. She took a breath. “It’s been a long time . . . since . . .”
He knew the way the sentence ended. Since she’d been with another man. Since she’d been with anyone but Chase. He didn’t want her to finish the thought. Didn’t want the man’s name here, in the darkness, with them.
But she finished it anyway. “. . . since I’ve felt this way.”
And, like that, he was unlocked. There was something about this woman, about the way she spoke, the promises she made with simple, ordinary words, that made him thoroughly desperate for her. But when she confessed her feelings, with utter honesty, surprise and a touch of wonder in her beautiful voice, how was he to resist her?
How was he to ever give her back once he had a taste of her?
How was he to walk away, eventually?
Christ.
What kind of mess was he getting himself into?
He released her, setting her feet to the floor, and she resisted the loss of him just as his body resisted the loss of her.
“Wait,” she said, leaning forward, her beautiful face coming into the light. “Don’t stop.”