Page 133 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“You mean sleep with you.”
Silence was his answer. He’d not beg.
Her solemn mouth opened, and she nodded slowly. “I can do that. For this one night.”
“I forgot. I face a formidable negotiator.”
Amber hair undone and pale thighs exposed, she’d come far, opening up to him with her secrets and wants. What other bread crumbs must he leave to entice her?
“Undress for me,” she repeated, her eyes level with his.
A low, lusty laugh rolled up his chest. In the gentle combat between the sexes, he and his wife had just squared off in a duel. He stood, the chamber’s fire heating his back. One hand freed a button on his placket.
She locked onto his hand lingering on the second button.
“Now it’s your turn. Do something for me,” he said.
Her mild pout was worth the challenge. It pleased him to have the upper hand, if only to surrender at the right moment. Sex was as much a game as a revelation.
“Read to me, and I’ll undress.”
The familiar flush crept up her bodice to her neck and cheeks. “But I read slowly, and if there’s a difficult word…”
“Don’t play scared with me. I’ve seen your courage.” He tugged free another button, his gaze falling on the book. “Open it. Read anything. The more you read, the more I’ll undress.”
Genevieve’s mouth spread with a knowing feminine smile. She shook her head and, warming to the game, thumbed the pages. Her lush pink mouth opened and she started reading, the exact words lost on him. It was her alto voice he wanted, a balm to his battered spirit.
He eased off one stocking and tossed it aside. And the other stocking. One hand flicked another button free. Shakespeare likely never expected this: a woman with a paint-smeared breast sitting on the floor, her skirt around her waist, reading his poem aloud.
“‘She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, / He red for shame, but frosty in desire.’” Genevieve primly checked his placket. “You’re certainly not frosty.”
Smirking at her own commentary, she dove back into the text. He laughed and released two more buttons. Her confidence pleased him as much as her quip. She was beautiful. Perfect. He released the last button, and his breeches landed in a heap.
“Your smalls, Marcus.” Dark eyes glimpsed him over the book. “Take them off.”
Desire stiffened his phallus. The round head pressed against linen. “As you wish.”
His voice grew thicker. Time dripped like honey. He took his time untying his smalls, watching her a singular pleasure. If he inspected his undergarment, he was certain he’d find a damp spot wetting the front. Nor was he alone in his discomfort. The more she read, the more a flush darkened his wife’s cleavage.
“‘…and even now / To tie the rider she begins to prove: / Backward she pushed him as she would be thrust...’” She squirmed. Her tongue darted over her lips. Genevieve concealed a hand in her bunched-up skirts at the juncture of her thighs.
The vixen was trying to touch herself.
“‘And governed him…in strength”—her voice slowed—“‘though not in lust…’”
Dark eyes flirted over the book. Heat nicked the back of his legs. Genevieve’s scrutiny, just as hot, sent a featherlight shiver across his skin.
He hooked a thumb in his smalls. “You want these off? Now?”
She nodded, a smile playing on her lips. “All the way.”
He pushed them down, and his erection sprang free, the tip glistening. As he kicked his clothes away, the urgency was killing him. He couldn’t wait. Grabbing the mantel with one hand, he stroked himself with the other, spreading the milky drops over the crown.
The book slumped to her lap. “What are you doing?”
“Pleasuring myself.”
Groaning, he rubbed his shaft up and down. His hips jerked. The hunger was sharp. Pressure spread in his abdomen. He cupped his cock’s round tip, playing with it, watching Genevieve watch him. The ache felt painfully good.
