Page 84 of In Need of a Duke
Charlotte licked her lips, then lifted her chin before she reached back and pulled a pin from her hair. For such a small thing to be tossed to the carpet, it was as bright and loud as a match strike in the middle of a dark room.
Ian didn’t budge, not even as she removed another and another, until her hair fell to her waist, her chin held high in challenge.
“Don’t move,” she cautioned as she reached to her side and slipped a button free from the yellow gown.
“I can’t?—”
“Wait,” she said again. “You will. I had to.” She padded closer, remaining just out of reach. “All these years.”
“And you hated me.”
“I never stopped thinking of you,” she corrected. “Eight years is a very long time.”
He nodded, nearly groaning as her gown cascaded down to the floor, revealing the shiny sateen of her petticoat.
“What did you think about?”
She shook her head, reaching down to lift up the petticoat above her head, then tossing it at him.
He held it in his hands.
“I can help,” he offered, his mouth dry at the sight of her tightly drawn stays over her chemise.
Charlotte stepped back.
Ian groaned.
“Patience, Ian.”
“Then tell me what you thought of.”
“This,” she answered as she turned around and slowly approached. “Please, just untie my stays.”
He swallowed, reaching out to untie her, never moving from his chair, and then, in what might be a Herculean effort, dropped his touch.
“Thank you,” she said, backing away.
Ian wasn't thankful. He felt like a man condemned, waiting out his last few moments. And still, he wouldn't move. He would wait.
She removed her stays, leaving her in the chemise and stockings. He could make out the silhouette of her body, the full, soft curves that waited for him to touch and kiss. Her breasts, the patch of soft curls between her legs, waiting for him to kiss and lick until she called out his name in pleasure.
And if he would do anything tonight, it would be to see her pleased properly because she deserved it.
With her chin still high, he watched her take a quivering breath before clutching the hem of her chemise. Slowly, she pulled it up her body, revealing her soft white skin, higher still to reveal her breasts, before it too was thrown in his direction, and she stood before him in stockings.
“Those,” he said, his hand clutching the knees of his trousers, “stay on.”
Her brilliant blue eyes met his, and for a moment, he swore she might not be as affected, but her breathing quickened at his demand.
“Now come here. I want to touch you.”
She shook her head. “Not yet.” Charlotte closed her eyes and ran her hand from her hip, skirting it over her stomach, then up to her breast.
“I thought of you touching me, Ian. I still do, but you know that now, don't you?”
“Yes.”
Watching her touch herself, just out of reach, was sheer torture. He felt his control slipping, knew this was more than temptation or control but trust.
