Farah found it strange that the more she revealed, the bolder she became. Perhaps it had something to do with the way Blackwell’s gloved hands gripped the chair arms when she allowed her dress to slide down her curves and puddle at her feet. Or the flare of his nostrils as she reached up, aware of how the action lifted her breasts even higher beneath her sheer chemise, and took the pins from her hair, one by one.
She unraveled the heavy braid that fell over her shoulder, shaking the curls loose to fall to her elbows.
Farah could tell Blackwell fought it, but desire began to melt the ice in his stare, causing his lids to fall heavy over his eyes, and his lips to part in order to allow for the quickening of his breaths.
She hesitated only a moment before moving to untie her laces.
“Don’t,” he ordered. “Not yet.”
Blackwell was a statue, but for the lift of his jacket in deep, heaving movements. His eyes traveled the expanse of her exposed flesh with all the tangible deftness of a caress, branding their way to the waist of her drawers.
“Get rid of them.” His voice barely recognizable now, he filled his chest as though it would stop the little twitches of muscle she could see by his eye, below his collar, in his fingers.
Heart thudding wildly, Farah tucked her thumbs into the band of her drawers, preparing to draw them down.
“Wait,” he clipped through gritted teeth.
Farah paused.
“Turn around.”
Puzzled by the request, she silently complied, determined to follow his instruction. She somehow understood that if Blackwell felt in control, he’d be more likely to go through with this. Farah was prepared and unprepared. Afraid and yet not afraid. Embarrassed and emboldened. The need lurking beneath the chill in his eyes drove her to abandon her characteristic modesty. She was too old for virginal shyness, had seen too much of the horrors this world thrust upon others.
Men were visually stimulated creatures, and females were lovely. It seemed only natural that Blackwell would feel the desire to look upon what he found difficult to bring himself to touch. She understood that in order to conceive the family she wanted, she needed to entice him to do more than look, and that was her prerogative. To push him to a place where desire overcame fear, where the animal instinct to mate controlled the machinations of the body.
And so she faced the fire banked low in the hearth, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and bent to push her drawers over her hips.
“Slowly.” He hissed the command.
A hazard lurked in her plan, though, Farah realized as she languidly swept the lacy drawers over the swell of her rump and down the quivering muscles of her thighs. For a man such as Dorian Blackwell to be driven mad enough with lust to break the bonds of the past.
He might be driven to break her, as well.
Dorian had often studied the female form in every modality from paintings to prostitutes. He’d seen them all. Appreciated a few, despite himself. But nothing could have prepared him for the vision of Farah’s body, a dark and flawless silhouette against the backdrop of the flames.
His weak eye blurred detail in the direct contrast with the firelight, and so instinct drew him to lean closer. She flared out in all the places a woman should, dipping to create curves that were the soft answer to a man’s hard angles.
Bent as she was, her ass was so exposed to him, the slight outline of her womanhood a dark secret in the low light.
Dorian’s mouth went dry. His racing heart sped like a stallion on the last sprint toward the finish line. Impossibly faster. Pushed to the limit of its capacity. His breath sawed in and out of his chest in tight, painful bursts, burning like it did when he ran in the winter. Frost and heat. Ice in his blood and fire in his loins.
It had been almost twenty years since anyone had touched him in a way not meant to cause pain. To humiliate, incapacitate, and control. It had been just as long since he’d used his hands for a purpose other than defense, violence, or domination.
Farah’s skin. Her flawless, unmarked skin. Free of scars, branded by no one, and belonging to him.
At last.
How could any man bring himself to desecrate such unblemished skin with his touch?
How did he stop himself from doing just that?
Dorian’s gloves creaked as he physically held himself to the chair. He wasn’t certain which impulse compelled him more, the one to seize her or the one to run.
So he sat. And watched. Savoring the torturously slow movements of her body like she’d enjoyed her dessert the night before. The pleasure not confined to her tongue, but a full-bodied, visceral experience.
Dorian had never in his life felt as much anticipation or found as much pleasure as she had for her cake and cream. Not his wealth, not his luxury, not in the victory over his many enemies. Not until this moment, when the round, tight curve of her hips and ass were presented to him like the spoils of war.
And yet he could not claim it, for the battle was not over. It raged within him. There were blood, casualties, losses of ground and gaining of the upper hand. It was violent. The outcome unsure.
So he sat.
And watched.
Farah did her best to ignore the whisper of chilly air against the moist, warm folds of her body as she stepped out of and discarded her drawers. Lifting her torso, her unsteady fingers plucked at the ties on her garters in order to rid herself of the cream stockings.
“Leave them,” he rasped.
She straightened, clad only in her corset, chemise, and stockings, unsure of what to do next.
“Lie down on the edge of the bed,” he commanded tightly.