“Nonetheless…” The word emerged as a croak, while he watched her flick the top pearl button open to reveal a few inches of creamy skin. Every muscle tightened in expectation. Which was ridiculous when that very morning, he’d seen her stark naked.
But there was something so damned stirring about a woman proclaiming her desire in the middle of the day. At any time of the day, really.
Helena was the most imaginative person he knew. The prospect of her devoting all that creativity to his pleasure made him shake.
Another button. Another few inches of skin.
West licked parched lips, and assured himself that she knew what she was doing.
He had to touch her, or go mad. His hand reached up under her skirts to release her garter and slide the silk stocking down. The brush of his fingers on her bare instep made her gasp, but her tone stayed cool. “You’ve taught me a lot about persuasion. It’s time I put those lessons into practice.”
Two more buttons. The shirt parted to reveal a narrow line of smooth olive skin.
She toyed with a third. His hungry eyes fastened on the finger moving over the button in a fiendishly suggestive pattern.
And something struck him that should have struck him much earlier.
“You’re not wearing a corset,” he said in a strangled voice.
A faint smile lifted her lush lips. “Or a shift.”
He closed his eyes, but the image of Helena undressing little by little for his delectation remained burned on his vision. “God give me strength.”
“I’m not wearing drawers either.”
His eyes shot open. He should be used to the way she sent his heart hurtling around his chest. He wasn’t. “That’s why you rode sidesaddle.”
Those lips quirked. “Yes.”
Caught up in the pleasure of having her to himself, he hadn’t paid too much attention to how she’d arrived. In London, she followed the dictates of propriety, however reluctantly. Here at Woodley Park, she almost always rode astride.
“You’ll drive me out of my mind before you’ve finished,” he groaned, his hand clenching on her toes.
“That’s the general idea.”
To his regret, she lowered her foot. With dazed eyes, he watched her stand and step away from the table with a sway of the hips and a saucy backward glance. Now that he knew how few layers separated her skin from his greedy hands, his restraint frayed until it was threadbare.
With a theatrical slowness that threatened t
o send him up in flames, she shifted to the side, raised her foot to the chair, and hitched up her skirts. By the time she’d untied her second garter and rolled the stocking off, he vibrated with lust.
When she straightened and faced him, his attention fixed on her open shirt. Every movement offered shadowy glimpses of her breasts. Tantalizing because she remained covered. Mostly.
He licked his lips when her nipples hardened against the white cambric.
She sent him a direct look. “This morning when I dressed, I was perfectly sober. So your scruples, while admirable, are unnecessary.”
He was on his feet before he thought about it and stalking toward her. She raised her hand to his chest, stopping him.
“No.”
“What the devil?” His hands opened and closed at his sides. She’d played this tormenting game the first night. He wasn’t sure he’d survive another bout.
Her glittering gaze focused on his face. “I want to test my wiles.”
He closed his eyes, and his groan was pained. A different game, after all. But the same torture. “This is revenge for that time I pushed you in the horse trough, isn’t it?”
“Would I hold a grudge for something a young lout did twenty years ago?”