With trembling fingers, she twisted her petticoat until she could loosen the fastenings—just a touch—and slide her hand inside. The fabric of her chemise still came between her fingertips and her belly, but it was so thin as to be inconsequential.
As she swept her touch lower, she bit her lip.
“Yes, that’s it,” he murmured. “Yes. That’s where you want it, isn’t it? And where I want it, too. You’re so lovely there. Lovely and pink and warm.”
She nodded.
“And wet. You’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”
Clio’s pulse raced at the crudeness of his words, but she couldn’t deny the truth. As she pushed her fingers between her thighs, the linen softened and grew damp.
“Here,” he said.
Where his hand covered hers on the bedpost, he drew one fingertip between her second and third fingers, slowly tracing the seam as if he were parting her legs. Or the folds of her sex.
Then his touch settled right in the sensitive crook where they joined.
“Touch yourself here,” he whispered, moving his fingertip in tight, steady circles that she felt everywhere. “Just like this.”
She was beyond any sense of shame or propriety, and his words had caught her in some sort of trance.
When her fingers slid into just the right place, her breath caught in a startled gasp.
“That’s it.” He kissed her ear. “That’s a good girl.”
The words made her smile. For once, she wasn’t being a good girl. She was being a wicked, wicked thing, and she loved it.
He loved it, too.
The edge of his restraint seemed to be fraying. He traced the shape of her ear with his tongue, then nibbled on her earlobe. Her senses hummed when he gave a husky groan.
And then his hand—the one that had settled on her waist—began to move. Just a little, at first. His thumb stroked back and forth in a coaxing arc. And then his entire hand began to sweep up and down in a gentle caress. With every pass, his fingertips brushed a bit lower on her hip, and his thumb grazed a fraction closer to the underside of her breast.
Please.
She wanted to encourage him somehow, but she was afraid to say or do anything too bold, for fear he might stop altogether.
There was a border they were fast approaching. A point of no return.
At last—with a muttered oath, he tipped them over the edge. His hand slid upward, cupping her breast. When his thumb found her nipple, she went faint with pleasure and relief.
“Come.” His whisper was hot and rough. He ran his tongue down her neck. He lifted and shaped her breast through the softened linen, rolling her nipple under the pad of his thumb. “If it damns my soul, I need to hear you come. And I want it to be for me.”
She touched herself, and he touched her, and the bliss gathered and built, until it loomed before her like a devastating wave.
She trembled. “Rafe . . .”
“I’m here. I have you. Just let it happen.”
His mouth captured hers, giving her the shelter she needed. When the bliss crashed through her, she moaned and sobbed and sighed it all into his kiss. Where she was safe.
And long after it was over, he kissed her still. So sweetly.
He released her arm from the bedpost, and they held each other close. She sifted her fingers through his hair. He touched her cheek. So lightly, using only the backs of his fingers.
It was the closest she’d ever felt to being treasured.
But the look on his face when he broke their kiss . . . Oh, it was like a dagger to her heart. Guilt etched furrows on his brow, and the green of his eyes was the shade of regret. As if he’d robbed her of something, instead of giving her the most beautiful, sensual experience of her life.
“Rafe, that was—”
“Clio, we can’t—”
“Miss Whitmore?” A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Whitmore, did you need help with your gown?”
Anna.
“Drat drat drat,” she muttered.
Rafe’s choice of words was decidedly less genteel.
“Just a moment,” Clio called out. She shimmied, then stepped out of the pool of gown and petticoats at her feet. She took Rafe by the hand. “Quickly. This way.”