Page 38 of The Heir
Dumbly, she handed him one, her eyes fixed on his softening penis.
“Can I let go now?”
“You may,” he replied, frowning at her. He swiped at himself with the napkin and then tossed it aside.
“Does it hurt?” Anna nodded at him, and he regarded her carefully.
“You haven’t done this before.”
“I didn’t know onecould,” she said, not taking her eyes off his groin. “Or two could. It looked uncomfortable for you.”
“Arousal has an element of discomfort to it, until satisfied, and then it is pleasurable beyond description.” He did not move to tuck himself up, and she did not stop looking.
“One would not necessarily reach that conclusion, watching you,” Anna said. “But you are not… aroused now?”
“No.” His smile was sweet, pleased. “If you keep looking at me like that, I will be again soon.”
“May I touch you?”
“Just be gentle, but indulge your curiosity however you please.”
Anna didn’t want to ask any more questions, feeling she’d revealed quite enough ignorance to a man who was utterly blasé about something so odd she could barely comprehend it.
So she let her fingers ask the questions, traveling along the softening length of him, lifting him this way and that, manipulating his foreskin and exploring his testicles, all with a frown of deepest puzzlement on her face, while he obligingly kept his eyes closed and gave every appearance of a man dozing off.
“You are…”—she waved a hand over his genitals—“becoming unrelaxed again.”
He opened his eyes and smiled. “You are a treasure. Let me hold you.”
When Anna hesitated, he tugged her down to his side, tucking her under his arm, her head on his shoulder. He lifted his hips to tug up his breeches but left the falls open and himself half exposed.
“If I touched you again,” Anna asked, “would you do that a second time?”
“With you? At least three times, eventually. A man does need some time to recover, though. Anna…?”
“Hmm?” Her hand was resting over his cock, but just that, not moving him nor attempting any further exploration.
“Thank you.” The earl’s eyes drifted shut. “There’s a great deal more to be said, of course, and soon, but for now, thank you.”
Anna didn’t know what to say to that, for she felt like thanking him, too. She had shared something with him, something wicked and dear and dangerous, and yet it was as he’d said. Her clothes were on and her physical virtue uncompromised. He had given her knowledge, of his body and of him, but he had not demanded comparable knowledge of her.
Maybe he would, Anna thought. Maybe that was the “great deal more” yet to be discussed. She hoped not, because as much as she might want to, she could not afford to allow him those liberties, not if she valued her freedom.
Six
“Come.” The earl held out a hand and grabbed the hamper, putting the blankets on top. “We need to talk, and the library will be less gloomy than the kitchen.”
They’d had to sprint for the kitchen when a summer squall had caught them napping on their blankets, and the rapid shift from pleasantly dozing to a dead run still had Anna disoriented. She put her hand in his but found she dreaded this talking he wanted. Words could land with the force of a blow, and she was going to hurt herself with what must be said, and very likely anger him, as well.
When they arrived at the library, he pulled the cushions from the window seats and fashioned a nest on the floor with those and the blankets. Retrieving the champagne bottle from the hamper and cracking one window, he settled cross-legged on the blanket and watched her as Anna moved restlessly around the room.
“Have some.” He held up the bottle. “We can swill from the bottle like heathens if it won’t offend you.” She joined him and took a pull from the bottle.
“You are sworn to secrecy,” she warned him. “Mrs. Seaton does not tipple.”
“Neither does Westhaven.” He followed her example. “Heir to a bloody duke, you know.”
In that moment, she lost a piece of her heart to him. His hair was curling damply against his neck, his clothing was in disarray, and he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty room, swilling champagne. In that posture, in his dishevelment, with grave humor dancing in his green eyes, the Earl of Westhaven was impossibly dear to her.
