Resisting.
Her bravery faded, and her gaze dropped to the floor. She started to let her hands drop, too. She needed to cover herself, find somewhere to hide from this humiliation. Perhaps the closet, or a nice crack in the floor.
“Don’t.”
With one big hand he caught both of her wrists. He pressed them back in place and held them there, effectively shackling her to the bedpost.
“Don’t move.”
Well. Now this was more like it.
The sudden heat and forceful nature of the contact, his unabashed stare, the vulnerability of her posture . . . it all made her writhe with excitement.
It wasn’t just knowing that Rafe found her body attractive.
It was that she found her body rather attractive, too.
“Look at you,” he breathed.
She did. She gazed down at herself, admiring the flushed pink of her skin beneath the thin white shift. The sunlight streaming through the windows was warm, and kind to her fair complexion, painting her with a rosy glow. Her peaked nipples strained and chafed against the fabric. Her gently rounded belly and hips made no excuses for themselves.
This was her body. She had learned to take pleasure in it, even if no man had ever done the same. It was curved and generous and womanly and strong, and it was formed to do more than decorate a drawing room, or transfer wealth from one gentleman to another.
She was made to tempt, labor, inspire, create, sustain.
Despite the way Rafe held her bound in his grasp, a sense of power moved through her. For once, she could revel in her femininity and feel it as something other than a disadvantage to be overcome. A quality to be respected, worshipped. Even feared.
She could do anything in this moment. She felt like a—
“A goddess,” he murmured.
Dear Lord. Forget sentences. He was finishing her thoughts now.
“You’re sculpted just like a Grecian goddess.” His gaze pulled up to catch hers. “And the hell of it is, your body’s only the third most attractive thing about you. Right after your clever mind and your lovely heart.”
If he meant to admire her heart, he had better do it quickly. Because she suspected the organ was going to give out at any moment. Her “clever mind” was already a bowl of blancmange.
“If you were mine to hold and pleasure, I’d . . .”
She sucked in her breath. “You would what?”
He leaned forward, and his voice was dark. “Take you in my arms, at first. Hold your heart close to mine and try to let that be enough. But it wouldn’t be enough. I’d start to want more. I’d want to make you want more.”
Oh, she already wanted more. Clio reclined against the bedpost to steady herself.
Don’t stop. Please, go on.
“I’d take down this lovely hair and let it fall through my fingers. I’d run my hands over your arms, your back. And all your tender, softest parts . . . that’s where I’d use my mouth. And then . . .” He bent his head, until his words scalded her ear. “And then I’d slide my hand beneath your shift and touch you. Right where we both want it most.”
The room blurred in her vision. A dull, aching pulse began to throb between her thighs.
“Do it,” he said, releasing one of her hands. “Do it for me.”
She startled, but his free hand went to her waist, holding her still.
“There’s no one,” he said. “No one will know. No one will see. Do what I can’t. Just this once.”
Her heart climbed into her throat. She didn’t know if she could do that. Not like this. Not in front of him.
His temple pressed to hers. “Christ, Clio. I think I’ll die of wanting you. If there’s any chance you feel it, too . . . Let me know I’m not alone.”
This was madness.
But she did want this. And she never wanted him to feel alone.