Page 15 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

This was what you wanted, remember?

Well, yes. But…she’d imagined a bed, and candles, and the cloaking forgiveness of night. She and Roger had once stayed awake ‘til dawn making love, but even that had been by the light of the moon and the embers in the fireplace. It had been special and magical and romantic.

This… This wasn’t any of those things.

This was cold and harsh and-and businesslike.

Demon lifted his hand between them, his lips still curled…and snapped his fingers.

The flood of liquid heat to her core surprised her.

He was calling her bluff. And Lady Georgia Stoughton didn’t bluff.

Father is depending on you. Danielle is depending on you. Do this for them.

Straightening her shoulders, she swallowed and met his eyes. “Very well, my lord,” she whispered, and had the satisfaction of seeing the surprise in his eyes before she bent to lift her skirts.

Somehow, it was easier to do this without looking at him. She gathered her skirts and turned away, taking a moment to arrange herself in front of his desk. Then she bent over and rested her elbows atop that damned contract, the words swimming before her eyes.

She heard him move behind her, felt the air move, and his heat. Then his hand was on her rear end.

“Ye’re still wearing yer chemise,” he growled.

“I’m still wearing everything.” Dear Lord, why was she antagonizing him? “You told me to lift my skirts.”

He made a noise which might’ve been a chuckle, but she didn’t turn to find out. As he lifted her chemise, she felt the air shift against her bloomers, and forced herself to focus on the bold strokes of his handwriting.

When he snaps his fingers, I’ll bend over and lift my skirts and be grateful for the opportunity to service him.

She didn’t want to like that—like this—but couldn’t deny the way her heart was pounding in anticipation. Her skin felt alive, charged, each square inch over-sensitive, all her senses focused on the man behind her.

Still, Georgia gasped when he yanked down her bloomers, the sudden violence of the act alarming and exciting all at once. It was the first time he’d touched her skin directly, and her body thrummed in anticipation of what would come next.

Except…nothing.

There she was, bent over a stranger’s desk in a cursed house, her body tingling in anticipation and fear, her bloomers down around her thighs and her chemise and petticoats around her waist. And…nothing. No touches, no sounds, no movements.

All of this, in front of the cat.

Was Demon studying her arse? Did he disapprove of what he saw?

She resisted the urge to twist around and ask him.

Instead, she focused on the words before her. He will erase my father’s debt. That’s why she was doing this. The longer he went without a hint of his thoughts, the weaker her knees became. She tried to banish her worry by telling herself she was humiliating herself for her family’s sake.

She could almost believe that.

Finally, he shifted; she could hear the wool of his kilt move against his thighs. “Spread yer legs,” he rasped.

Her heeled boots made it difficult, but she’d already walked across country in them, so how hard could it be? She shifted first one way, then the other, spreading her legs as far as the bloomers now tight around her thighs would allow.

And then…his hand was on her rear end.

Just one hand, large and callused. Why would a baron have calluses on his hands? His fingertips were rough, his touch on her tender skin causing her to shudder.

“That’s a good lass,” he murmured, his touch turning to a stroke. “Shhh.”

He was calming her, the way one might shush a nervous horse. The realization startled her, and she tensed.

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