Beth smiled into his mouth. She wrapped her arms around him, the gauzy drape coming around his neck. She tasted like warm honey, incredible sweetness. Something deep inside him responded. Ian recognized wanting, but it was more than that.
He slid his broad knee between hers, coaxing her forward as he kissed her. He boosted her with his hands on her bu**ocks until she trustingly straddled his thigh. Ian loosened his hold a little, letting her slide against his rock-hard thigh. Beth looked surprised, and then a soft sound escaped her lips.
Ian held his hands loosely on her hips, rocking her against his hard leg, teaching her to pleasure herself. Her sweet and exciting scent surrounded him. He kissed her, then left her alone to enjoy the strange sensation of the fabric against her cleft.
Beth scraped back and forth, her breath coming faster, cheeks pink and damp with sweat. She’d never pleasured herself, he realized. This was new to her, astonishing, delightful. Her head went back, and she closed her eyes. Wisps of hair trickled down her neck, her lips parting in desire. “Ian,” she whispered. “How do you know so well.. . what I want?”
He knew because her body told him. He liked a woman rising under his touch like Beth did now, eyes softening in delight. Women were more beautiful than ever when they gave in to pleasure. He loved how they smelled, how they tasted, the sound of their breathy sighs, the warmth of their bodies under his hands.
That meant that Ian could stand in Mac’s studio, fully dressed, and have Beth go crazy with pleasure. He liked the power of it, and the joy of watching Beth’s eyes widen and hearing her gasp turned to frenzied cries of delight. Ian took a curl at her forehead between his lips. He wanted her in every way possible, but he was enjoying slowly spinning out the seduction, giving her one taste at a time, watching her learn to want him.
One night, he would have her. By then, Beth would want him so much he could make her his forever. Ian didn’t understand love, by his own admission, but he knew having Beth in his life was something worth striving for. She’d said no the first time he’d asked her to marry him; she’d explained in her sensible manner that she had no inclination to marry. But Ian would change her mind. Ian Mackenzie had learned to be good at getting what he truly wanted. Beth’s cries rang against the studios high ceiling. She clasped his face between her hands and kissed him, hard. “Thank you, Ian,” she whispered.
Ian sank his fingers into her bottom and returned the kiss, tasting her as her orgasm wound down. She’d thanked him in the duchesse’s tiny sitting room, yet she was the one who stilled the beast inside him. He should be thanking her for giving him this peace, if only for a few precious moments.
I have become a truly wicked woman, Beth wrote in her journal a few days later. I find myself looking forward every day to what naughtiness Ian and I might do together.
Yesterday he escorted Isabella and me to Drouant’s, that very fashionable new restaurant where everyone goes to see who is there and with whom. Ian doesn’t speak much in company and never minds that Isabella and I gossip like magpies—or rather, Isabella tells me all about the people she sees, and I inhale it with too much enjoyment.
Ian held my hand under the table the entire meal. Isabella knew—of course she did. She seems quite enchanted with Ian’s attentions to me. But if she knew how Ian held my hand, she might not be so sanguine.
Ian cannot do something so simple as hold a woman’s hand. He moves his thumb up my wrist and under my glove, finding points that shoot wild heat through my body. He caresses the inside of my palm with soft fingers, and then he threads his fingers through mine and holds hard, as though teaching me that my hand belongs there with his. He calmly eats his sole meuhiere, or whatever exotic concoction Isabella has insisted we try, and says not a word. Ian and I are lovers—how strange for me to pen the word. And yet, we have not consummated our affair, not in the way of the marriage bed. I had thought, in Mac’s studio, that he would remove his clothes and couple with me on the couch. But he did not. He didn’t take off one stitch, not even loosening his collar, while I lay against him in my altogether. Quite disappointing.
However, my bare skin against the fabric of his coat was a strange but pleasing sensation. I never thought myself so depraved, but it made me feel rather wild and wanton. I would have done anything in that room, anything he wanted me to, but he gently suggested I dress and go before Isabella worried where I was.
I did, but the way he kissed me before I departed promised more adventures at a later time. And good heavens, did I , have an adventure today. . . .
Beth paused in her writing to listen to the rain beating at the windows. Paris had come in for a series of summer storms, rain and wind gushing endlessly through the city. It had ruined Beth’s morning walk and put paid to her and Isabella strolling along looking at shops.
Ian had said he’d take Isabella and me driving in the park today, and he arrived at the appointed hour. Isabella took one look at the slate gray sky and flatly refused to go. If we wanted fresh air so much, she said, Ian and I could go without her. Ian didn’t look as though he minded one way or another, so I found myself climbing into the carriage alone with him. Was Isabella a bit too easily put off by the weather? Did she too readily press her hand to her head and declare she felt a migraine coming on? She seems to want me to be improper—perhaps to encourage Ian to propose? But Ian and I are grown-up people—he is twenty-seven, Isabella tells me, which puts him two years younger than 1.1 am not a virginal debutante sheltering behind her mama’s skirts, and he is not a dark villain. We are simply a widow and a bachelor of the same age enjoying each other’s company. When the carriage began moving around the park at a fair clip, I boldly told Ian how much I’d liked feeling his clothes against my body in Mac’s studio. He smiled that warm, melting smile of his and said that if I liked that sort of sensation, I could pull down my drawers then and there and sit bare-buttocked on his lap.
The thought aroused me instantly, and Ian knew it, drat the man. I believe he delights in putting me in this state. I did not obey, because I could imagine the coach having an accident and me scrambling to safety with my lacy drawers about my ankles. Paris is a more permissive place than London, but I think even here I’d never live it down. Ian smiled at my fears and told me that nearly getting caught was part of the fun. I countered by mentioning that he had seen quite a lot of my bare skin, while I hadn’t seen a bit of his.
He then asked me which bit I had in mind.