Page 90 of A Deal with the Devil

He only laughed softly.

Want and need shivered through her, and she struggled to stem the sparks shooting off each other deep inside. “Then I want to touch you,” she very nearly whined.

Very well, she did whine. She wasn’t proud of it, but he was making her feral.

He grabbed her wrist in a stern grip when she reached for him. “When I say so.”

“Then say so.”

“Not yet. Stand up.”

She stood up even though her legs already felt weak.

“Now turn around.”

He brushed the nape of her neck, trailing his fingertips down to the little button at the top of her dress. Then he undid the laces that closed at the side, and her skirts fell to the floor. He pulled the bodice down slowly, so slowly, until she stood in her stays and chemise.

There was a pause, then he stroked down her spine. “How the devil do these stays come off?”

She laughed, turning around. The laugh died in her throat. His green eyes raked over her hungrily. “They lace at the front,” she whispered. “I don’t have a lady’s maid, remember?”

“Right.” He tugged at the laces until they slipped free. She tried not to wish, once again, that she was not wearing something silkier, frothier. “Perfect,” he said. “I like opening presents, but too much frippery just gets in the way.”

She stifled a groan. “I thought that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Shh,” he said, tightening his grip on her waist. “I’m working.”

The candlelight played over his dark, tousled hair, over his strong fingers as he guided her gaping stays down over her hips, pulling her stockings with them until they joined her dress on the floor. “Kitty?”

“Yes?”

“I will buy you new undergarments.”

“Why w—”

His big hands closed around the material already worn thin and pulled. Her shift ripped, the sound shocking in the quiet library. He had literally torn it from her body. Her bud pulsed with awareness. Her nipples pebbled at the brush of air.

She stood wearing nothing but his ring, gleaming on her finger. He was still fully clothed, though his cravat was undone and his sleeves rolled up, coat discarded. It was a simple thing to picture him ruling the Underworld. She was exposed before him, vulnerable. Trying not to squirm with desire. Waiting for his next command.

She ought to be bristling with defiance.

That might be fun too.

But tonight, it was so nice just to be. Not to have to make every decision, to constantly adjust plans or make hard, imperfect choices. There was no strategy here, and it was freeing—soothing, even as it excited every nerve ending until every brush against her skin felt positively wanton. His breath ghosting over her had tension sparking deep inside again.

“Oh, not yet, firecracker,” he breathed against her belly.

“I need—”

“I know what you need.”

“Only because you are withholding it from me,” she grumbled.

“Poor firecracker,” he said with false sympathy and a smile that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “Are you suffering?”

She raked her fingers through his hair and tightened her hold. “Yes.”

His eyes flared, as green as the dancing lights in the north that she had only read about. She twisted slightly, pulling his hair. His breath caught, low and harsh. Like music. She understood now why he wanted to claim all of the noises she made.