Authors: Eloisa James
If only she were Georgiana—someone with enough control that she wouldn’t have eaten so much.
It would be so much better for both of them if she had Georgie’s slender thighs. If she had her sister’s legs she would flaunt them, roll on her hip and
know
that his eyes couldn’t leave her.
She swallowed. “I will not do this unless I can keep my chemise on. I mean that.” The words were as resolute as she could make them, bitten-off and stern.
Quin’s brows drew together for a second, but he nodded. He looked like some sort of hawk, tamed to the hand but still wild. His skin glowed like honey in the moonlight. She sat up, pulling her chemise away from her skin so that it wasn’t quite so revealing.
What did a lady do in this situation? Dimly, in a small corner of her mind, Olivia realized that her mother’s duchification program had neglected this entire subject. It hardly needed be added that
The Mirror of Compliments
was focused on preserving chastity, rather than abandoning it.
“I’m not sure what to do next,” she admitted, hoping he wouldn’t ask for any details about her supposed experiences with Rupert.
The look in his eyes was pure arrogant male delight. “Luckily, I do.”
She waited.
“Take off my coat,” he whispered, so softly she could barely hear him. A smile trembled on her lips and she reached out and pushed the coat off his shoulders. Then she unbuttoned his waistcoat, tossed it to the side, and tugged his shirt free from his breeches. She moved to pull up the shirt, but was diverted by the skin she found at his waist. She came up on her knees too, and ran her hands around his tight abdomen to the swelling muscles of his back.
“How is it you are so fit? Most men are rather soft, I have found.”
He shrugged. “Physical exercise clearly has a positive effect on the human physiology. There seemed sufficient evidence to engage in it on a regular basis.”
His skin was smooth and hot under her fingers. She let her hands wander under his shirt: up his broad back to his shoulders, back down again, up his front. Apart from some small shivers, he let her do as she wished.
When she brushed her fingers over his nipples, a hoarse grunt broke from his lips. She glanced and saw that his eyes were shut.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she ordered, feeling a flash of courage. If his eyes remained closed the entire time, it would be as good as having curtains in a decently dark bedchamber.
He nodded obediently. She felt more confident when he wasn’t looking at her; she needn’t worry about how much that ridiculous chemise was revealing.
She managed to pull his shirt over his head, discovering that his torso was beautiful, with a narrow, taut waist. She caressed every bit of his chest and then—glancing again at his still-closed eyes—leaned in close and placed her mouth where her hands had been.
A low noise broke from his lips. “No opening your eyes,” she warned. His lips tightened, but he nodded.
She bent to him again, kissing him, tasting him, dusting little kisses over his entire chest. And she kept coming back to his nipples because every time she rubbed her lips across them he responded. It was like champagne, that little sound he made. It was power, and she was drunk on it.
She forgot to keep an eye on his face, reassuring herself that he wasn’t watching. Instead she came closer, squirming onto his lap so that she could rub more than her lips against him.
“Olivia.” His voice was soft, liquid with passion.
Startled, she looked up, to find those gray-green eyes gazing at her. The moonlight frosted his thick lashes and he looked otherworldly: a fairy king, not a mere mortal. “You were to keep your eyes closed,” she said, giving in to temptation and running a fingertip along his lashes. “You’re so beautiful, Quin. Too beautiful for me.”
He laughed at that. A third laugh, in the space of an hour.
She trailed her finger down, across his full bottom lip, leaned forward and carefully followed that line with her tongue.
“May I touch you now?” he murmured against her lips.
“Mmmm,” she whispered back, loving the taste of him.
Big hands came to her back and pulled her against his naked chest. Olivia gasped as her breasts were pressed against him; they felt plump and wildly sensitive.
One hand held her against him while another slid down her back, slow and sensuous. “Aren’t you going to remove the rest of my clothing?” He said it low and soft, like a dare he knew she couldn’t resist.
She almost tumbled off his lap, turned to face him. “My breeches have a placket,” he said, making no move to undo it himself.
Olivia leaned a little closer and found what he meant. She fumbled, her fingers trying to manipulate the buttons, aware that his breathing was fast and ragged. Once she saw how he trembled at her touch, she slowed down, caressing just inside the band of his breeches, loving his swift intake of breath as her fingers dipped lower.
Slowly, slowly, she eased the breeches over his lean hips, down powerful thighs. Once they were at his knees, he swiftly removed them and tossed them to the side. Now he wore nothing but smalls, which did very little to conceal what lay underneath.
No limp celery this—though Olivia instantly pushed away the thought as disloyal to Rupert. She may not be marrying him, but she would always be his true friend.
She was slow and careful working Quin free from his smalls, trying not to show awe at the size of him.
He threw the smalls after the breeches and came back to her, kneeling, hands quiet at his sides, but she could sense the leashed power in him, waiting to spring free. To spring on her.
A wave of anxiety flooded her again, sent her eyes skittering from him, from all that perfection, down to her thighs—only to find that blasted chemise had caught
again
and was emphasizing the fleshiness of her upper leg. Heat rushed into her cheeks as she plucked it free.
He said not a word. She looked up to see that he was regarding her with such a tender expression that she cringed. “Don’t you
dare
pity me,” she snapped.
Surprise flooded his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Olivia said. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. Well . . .” To her dismay, she felt as if tears were threatening. Added quickly: “What do we do now?”
His face was serious again, the expression he had when he was thinking about light, or poetry.
“It’s just that I’m not sure what to do,” she said, her voice catching. Tears pushed at her eyes again.
“Dear heart,” he said, “what’s the matter?” He reached out and put his arms around her.
“Nothing,” she muttered, feeling ten times a fool. “Kiss me?”
“Good idea.” He kissed her slowly and sweetly, eyes closed—she checked before she relaxed into the feeling of being near Quin.
Then, when she was kissed into a hazy state, he moved so that she found herself on her back, her hair flowing around her. It was almost too much: trying to take in the sensation of his body heavy against her side,
naked
, his arousal urgent against her. And the moon was pitiless, casting its cool silver light everywhere.
It was pretty; she had to admit that. The inside of the little house glimmered with light that looked magical. If only it weren’t so
revealing
. A little less magic, that was all she asked.
“There’s something wrong,” Quin said, raising himself on all fours and looking down at her.
Her lip quivered and then, no longer able to choke them back, a tear spilled—even as she told herself,
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry
.
Quin reached out with a thumb, gently rubbed it away. “Help me, sweetheart. Emotions are not my strong point. I need you to tell me what’s the matter.”
She shook her head. “Nothing! I’m simply being foolish.”
His eyes searched hers and Olivia looked away, fast. He saw too much with those damnably intelligent eyes of his.
The next thing she knew her hands were caught and held above her head. “If you won’t tell, I’ll have to resort to logic. You’re not afraid of being with me. And you told me that you’re not a virgin, so you can’t be afraid of pain.”
Did she actually say that? He had inferred that she and Rupert had made love. And she couldn’t tell him otherwise without breaking her promise.
“Unless”—he hesitated—“am I considerably larger than Rupert?”
Her gaze lingered on him with pleasure, and he seemed to throb and grow under that gaze. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice throaty.
He laughed. “That is not fear that I hear in your voice.”
“Does it bother you that I’ve—I’ve seen Rupert before you?”
He frowned. “Why should it? You didn’t choose to lose your virginity to Rupert, any more than he chose the reverse. I feel a measure of contempt for Rupert’s father, but none for you.”
It was very like Quin: both logical and fair. She managed a wobbly smile. “All the same,” she began.
But he cut her off. “That’s not it, Olivia. Please don’t lie to me.”
Her eyes fell.
“When I am in doubt, I make a list of questions,” he said, leaning down and biting her earlobe so that she squealed.
“First question. Is darling Olivia afraid of my cock?”
He picked up her hand, curled it around his erection. Olivia gasped, delighted at its silky heat, smoothness, the way it jumped in her hand. She slid up . . . down. Took a quick glimpse and realized that Quin’s eyes were shut, head thrown back. Just the way she liked him. She tightened her grip, wondered what he might taste like.
He moved her hand away, satisfied with her silent answer to his question. “Not afraid of it,” he murmured, his voice a shade deeper, darker, than it had been.
“Second question. Is my Olivia afraid there might be pain?” He looked at her intently.
She shook her head.
“I didn’t think so,” he said with satisfaction. “Besides, I mean to make you so limp with pleasure that you’ll be begging me for more of the same.” This time his smile was pure unadulterated male.
Olivia’s heart skipped a beat.
“Third question,” he said, and he shifted onto his knees. “Could it be that foolish, foolish Olivia fears I won’t like her body?” And then, quick as a cat, while she was still considering her reply—for even though he was right, she certainly didn’t want to admit it—he reached out and ripped her chemise straight down the middle.
It was a good thing the staff had been sent away from the stables, because Olivia’s scream of outrage could likely have been heard well into the gardens.
But Quin was already ripping away the last shred of cloth. Olivia squeezed her eyes, not wanting to see his face. That damn moonlight was everywhere, illuminating every curve and wobble.
He didn’t touch her, and he didn’t say anything. Olivia felt as though time stood still, leaving her stranded in the most humiliating moment of her life.
When at last he spoke, his voice was greedy and rough. “You don’t really wish that you were a scrawny thing like your sister, do you?”
“Georgiana is not scrawny!” Olivia said, her eyes popping open.
“Like a stick of celery,” Quin said. “Legs like a grasshopper’s. A man wants this, Olivia.” His hands came gently, shaping her breasts.
“I do know that,” Olivia said, shivering as his touch sent flames licking over her body. “I like my breasts.”
His hands slid lower, over the tummy that wasn’t washboard tight, like his, or slender as a dancer’s, like Georgiana’s.
“A man wants
this
.” His voice was still darker, rusty with passion as his fingers bit into her curves, sank into her warmth.
They slid lower, onto her hips. “You do remember that I never lie?” he asked, his eyes fixed on his hands.
Olivia looked down too, curious, seeing honey-dark hands gripping her hips. She looked like cream in the moonlight, as if her skin were glowing with some sort of inner luminescence.
“Yes, I remember,” she managed.
“I think I love your hips and your arse most of all.” The emotion in his voice was unmistakable. “But then I remember your breasts and how much I love them. I love every bitable, lush, delicious curve, Olivia, including those you haven’t let me touch or kiss yet.”
Until this moment, Olivia had been holding her body rigid, her thighs tight, her stomach pulled in. Now, slowly, she relaxed, watching him. Quin couldn’t lie. She knew that; she had told Georgie that. She believed it.
The lust on his face, the way he was touching her, almost reverently, bending his head, now, kissing her greedily . . . That was the truth.
“Succulent,” he murmured.
“You make me sound like a roast chicken.”
“Ripe and plump and delicious.
Soft
.”
She shook her head. “Those are not the words a woman wants to hear from a man looking at her thighs.” But she was feeling better, and they both knew it.
“Georgie does not have grasshopper legs,” she said, poking him to make sure that he’d heard her. What he was doing now was going to make her collapse in a boneless heap, but she had to make sure he understood that one thing. “She has elegant, slender legs that any woman would love to have.”
He looked down at her, eyes predatory, those big hands holding her. “Not
my
woman. Not you.”
Olivia was about to defend her sister again, but he pulled her legs open and put his mouth on her, on that part of her.
She went rigid again for a second, long enough for a rough lap and a sweet lick, a finger stroking where a tongue had just been, a . . .
And then she forgot about Georgie. Forgot her own name. Forgot everything except the man who drove her further into a firestorm with every lick. She couldn’t stop twisting, or suppress the moans leaving her throat, one after another, undignified, guttural,
animal
.
Quin’s hands were everywhere, touching her, adoring her, sliding under her and biting into her bottom, then soothing the little pain, sliding around her thighs, making it clear that every silky inch met with his satisfaction, finally inching up, parting her folds, one finger going . . .
there
.