Page 51 of Cocky August Rake

Her breasts rose above the loosened edge of her stays, full and pale, twin roses that tightened beneath his stare. Her waist was small enough for his hands to span. The fine lawn of her chemise fell from beneath the stays in a thin, almost weightless veil, doing little to hide the curve of her hips or the shadowed promise between her thighs.

His body answered with humiliating force.

“Tell me, my lord,” she demanded again. “Please.”

Her command made him harder.

Reginald shook his head once, as though he could clear it.

“I want to see your skin,” he said at last, the words rough. “I want the stays gone.”

Rose lifted her hands to the laces in front. Her fingers, he noticed, trembled ever so slightly as she loosened the gap.

A tug. A shift. The undergarment parted, and then fell to the floor beside her gown.

Reginald stopped breathing.

She was still covered, barely. By the ridiculous chemise, silk stockings, her garters.

His trousers became suddenly, painfully tight, and the blood in his veins had turned to fire.

Every disciplined part of him collapsed under the assault of wanting her.

He should have protested.

This was not meant to be about what he wanted.

And yet she had caught him in some delicate web, making him believe that his wanting was what would please her.

How could he think of a single argument when his hands ached to touch the places his eyes had already claimed? When the room seemed smaller now, warmer, every inch of air between them charged with the single brutal fact of her body and his need for it?

Rose took one step closer.

“Do you still wish to please me?”

FALLEN

“Yes.” Lord Reginald’s voice was little more than a growl.

Rose forced herself to stay calm, despite the thunder roaring in her ears.

The ache between her legs had become a throb now. Steady and demanding. So strong she could scarcely remember why she was doing this.

“I want you to kneel before me.”

For one dreadful heartbeat, Rose thought she had gone too far.

He was the son of a duke. A captain. A man accustomed to command. Men like him did not kneel before a woman like her.

But Lord Reginald only looked at her, his pupils widened until only a thin ring of silver remained.

Then he lowered himself to his knees.

Rose’s breath caught.

His hands rested on his thighs. He did not reach for her.

He waited.