Page 68 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

She was sheer perfection, and he was lost. What a fool he was to have started this. But he had, and here they were, and now he was nothing but need for her. Need and a faint clanging, somewhere in his brain, saying that he must not touch her. Because…Because…Something.

Ah, yes, because if he touched her, the world would collapse.

What utter nonsense.

“I thought you didn’t want this,” she said.

“I can stop any time I want.”

“So why don’t you stop now?”

“Because I don’t want to yet.” He hooked his fingers around her wrists. The world did not collapse. “Because first I want to look at my wife.”

She allowed him to lift her hands away from her body, to rest them back by her sides. Her full breasts, rising and falling. The round curve of her stomach. The softness of her hips and thighs. The promise of the dark curls at that sweet juncture.

His hands yearned to caress every inch of her. His tongue to taste her. His cock to fill her. Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, for she gasped and covered her eyes with her palms.

He chuckled unevenly. “I can still see you.”

“Cannot.”

“What a shame, because I so like looking at you.”

He came as close as he dared, let his lips find her ear. Her hair tickled his cheek and he resisted the urge to bury his face in it. She kept her eyes firmly covered.

“Do you like me looking at you?” he whispered, breathing in her scent, feeling it fill his veins. “Be honest now.”

With a long shuddering breath, she said, “Yes.”

Oh sweet mercy. “Would you like me to touch you?”

“I…It’s my…I mean…Must you consult me at every step?”

She did not even know what she wanted, still less how to express it. Could she imagine what he wanted? To trail his mouth and hands over every soft, fragrant inch of her, from those luscious breasts down to her belly. To part her thighs and touch her and kiss her until she lost all coherent thought. Until she forgot everything that she wanted except his touch.

He had started this stupid game, and she had upped the ante, and now she did not know the next play. His turn then: He would tease her and taunt her, torment her with her own desire, until she understood its power and would think twice before playing with him again. Risky? He took risks every day. And he could stop any time he wanted. He could always walk away.

He retreated to a moderately safer distance. “The trouble with touching you is that you have no idea where it leads.”

“I have some idea.” Her tone was dry beneath the breathiness. “Our wedding night, if you recall.”

“Which you did not enjoy.”

“I will do my—”

“If you mention your bloody wifely duty one more time…”

He trailed off. She needed to understand that playing with desire was like playing with fire. It wasn’t the only problem, it wasn’t the biggest problem, but it was still a problem.

“I should not touch you, but if I do not touch you, you will never understand.” He dragged his eyes off her, looking around. A vase of roses sat on the table by her bed. Three roses, pink and half-opened. “What a conundrum. It’s a good thing your husband is an inventive problem-solver.”

He eased a rosebud from the vase and turned back to her. With a yelp, she uncovered her eyes. Oops: Cold water had dripped down the stem and splashed onto her skin. A droplet of water, right there on the softest, roundest part of her thigh.

“My apologies,” he said.

“Now you find your manners?” she muttered. “Now?”

He couldn’t help grinning as he used the heel of his hand to wipe away the drop, taking longer than he needed. She gasped, and he mustered all his will to haul his hand off.

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