Chapter 27
A weight was lifted from Ivy’s shoulders now that she had told Owen everything, even as a different sort of tension wound around her chest. Owen towered over her, his hair tousled and his sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His eyes were dark and dangerous, and that sense of wild abandon had once again come over him.
She knew he was hurt that she had spied on him, and he had every right to be, but the way he was looking at her seemed to hold more heat than injury.
“What is your confession?” It was a dangerous question. If she had more sense, she would scurry to her room. She knew he would let her go. But Ivy had never once passed up a chance for a good piece of gossip or a shocking confession.
His eyes fell to her lips, scorching a path along her skin. “I cannot stop thinking about our kiss in the meadow.”
Her fingertips tingled. “Oh?”
“I cannot stop remembering how perfect you were. How soft your lips were. How sweet your gasps were when you came apart.”
Ivy’s cheeks flushed, and her breathing accelerated. “We were almost caught.”
“Which is why it cannot happen again.”
She nodded in agreement, even as disappointment slithered through her. What he had done, what they had shared—she would be lying if she said she did not want to experience it again.
“We are in agreement, then.”
She nodded again, expecting him to back away and take with him his delicious warmth and the tension that thickened the air between them. But he remained in place, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“What are you wearing underneath your nightgown?”
It was an obscenely inappropriate question, and she did not know if he had asked it to shock her into fleeing, or if he truly wanted to know. Before she could reply, he said, “Do not answer that. Leave now. Please.”
“No. I came to the kitchen for a snack, and I have only had a bite of bread.” She edged around him, feeling his eyes on her as she walked to where the roll lay discarded.
When she reached the table, she peeked over her shoulder at him.
He was as stiff as stone, his knuckles white, and she realized two things: First, no matter what he said, Lord Owen Brackley wanted her, and second, he would not do anything about it.
He was too honorable, too worried about tarnishing her reputation to make another mistake like they had in the meadow.
And yet it was nearly midnight, and they were alone in the kitchen. Ivy knew how crucial a woman’s reputation was, but how would anyone know if she and Owen were not entirely proper? If neither of them told, why could they not indulge? Why could this not be their very own secret?
When they had kissed in the meadow, he had made her feel both pleasured and treasured.
If she was lucky, she would find a marriage match, preferably with Lord Hartford, but she knew without a doubt that neither Hartford nor any other man could ever make her feel the way Owen did.
Why should she not experience passion with him one more time?
The clock ticked over the stove. One second passed, then another.
“If you want to know what is underneath my nightgown, you shall have to find out for yourself.”
His pupils fattened. “You do not know what you are asking.”
“Do not speak to me as if I am na?ve and stupid.”
“That is not what I meant. You do not know who you are tempting. You do not know what kind of lover I am.”
Her pulse skipped a beat. “What kind of lover are you?”
He took a single step forward and halted, his iron will a nearly visible force holding him back. “A demanding one.” His voice roughened. “A commanding one.”
She had a memory of them standing outside the schoolroom while he asked her if she was adept at taking orders in a voice that had made her stomach twist with desire. “You like to give orders.”
His eyes burned, but he said nothing.
She considered what that might be like. She thought of how his hands had known exactly what to do with her in the meadow to make her reach her peak. She did not think she would mind following his orders if it was her choice to do so.
“I can listen,” she said, losing her breath a little at the look in his eye.
“Can you?” He advanced another step. “What of your reputation? I cannot take your virtue.”
“That decision should be my choice, too,” she argued as he closed a little more distance.
“Mmm.” His gaze raked across her dressing robe. “You are certain you know what you want?”
“Yes. No. I mean, I cannot be certain if I have never experienced it.”
His grin was sinful. “Does the governess require more schooling?”
“Mayhap she does.”
He had reached her now, and he dipped his head to whisper in her ear, “Another lesson, then? Turn around, Sunshine.”
With the order, his tone shifted from teasing and heated to commanding, and Ivy did not know why the primal direction had her skin flushing, only that it did something to her insides. Something she liked.
She turned to face the kitchen table, her heart pounding in her chest like a bird fighting to take flight.
“Put your palms flat on the table, and do not move them unless I tell you to.”
Ivy obeyed, but could not help asking, “What if I do?”
She felt his heat at her back as his hand brushed the hair from her neck. He dropped a kiss to the sensitive skin, his lips hot and dry. Chills raced down her arms. “Test me and find out.”
She liked that, too, because she knew despite the promise in his voice, she was safe with him.
His hands trailed up her back to her neck, to the lapels of the dressing robe, and he slowly dragged the robe down her shoulders until it draped at her wrists, but she did not move her hands to remove it completely.
“So lovely, so good at listening,” he praised, sweeping her hair across her back so that he could kiss the other side of her neck. The heat of him was an inferno, his chest hard and firm. She felt enveloped by him. Cherished by him. Desired by him.
She felt powerful, which was strange considering he was the one giving orders.
His fingers crept around her neck, stroking her throat as they drifted to the laces on the high-necked collar of her nightgown.
He deftly undid them, until the fabric gaped open.
He dipped his hand inside, tracing both collarbones with his finger, and chills sprang up on her skin.
She pressed back, and he squeezed her hip with his other hand, stilling her.
“You have been driving me to madness,” he growled against her neck. “So soft and capable and sunny. I am going to take my time wringing out every ounce of pleasure you have to give me.”
Ivy involuntarily moaned, and he chuckled softly. He cupped her chin and turned her head to the side so that he could meet her eyes. “If you want me to stop at any time, tell me to stop. I will. Do you understand?”
“Do not stop.”
“You do not want me to stop now, but I might go too far or too fast for you, and I would be devastated if you did not halt me.”
She nodded, his assurance easing tension she had not even been aware of. He was so much more experienced than she was, and she was worried she could not be what he needed.
“You are safe with me,” he murmured, releasing her chin. “I will never be angry with you. I will never be unhappy so long as you are honest with me.”
“All right,” she said softly.
He must have been satisfied, because he spread the neck of the nightgown wide and dragged it down her shoulders with such aching slowness that by the time her breasts spilled over the collar she was panting.
She expected him to take it off entirely, but he left it in the crook of her elbows, pinning her arms to her sides, her breasts bare to the cool night air and the dying orange glow of the kitchen fire.
“Are you all right with this?” he asked, brushing his lips across her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“It appears the answer to my question is nothing.”
“W-what?” Her mind was already going fuzzy from the erotic feeling of being bare-breasted in the kitchen, her nipples puckering in the cool air.
“The answer to my question about what is underneath your nightgown. Turn around.”
She did, the dressing robe falling off her hands and leaving her with the nightgown tight around her arms. His eyes fell to her chest, and the expression on his face was worshipful.
“You are stunning.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips.
“I knew you would be.” He kissed the other corner, and then finally the center of her mouth, just a warm, brief touch that left her longing for more.
Before she could protest, he ran his lips down the side of her neck, dragging his tongue along a pathway of nerves that made her skin buzz.
His hands closed around her upper arms, and still he did not touch her breasts—he did not even allow the front of his shirt to accidentally graze them.
Ivy felt as if the delay was only making her heavier, more aroused. His touches were teasing, alternating between giving her flashes of what she wanted and then retreating.
Slowly, he slid his palms to where the fabric bound her arms to her sides, and slipped his hands inside her nightgown to cup her rib cage. He was so large that his fingers met at her back, his thumbs resting just beneath the heavy globes of her breasts.
Ivy’s heart was pounding in her ears. She lifted her eyes to his, and he smiled before crushing his mouth to hers.
The pressure of his mouth, the skill, the coaxing of his tongue—it was a balm to all of the light half-touches she had received thus far.
He forced her mouth wider, even as his thumbs brushed upward once, grazing the undersides of her breasts.
Ivy moaned into his mouth and tried to press closer, but he withdrew, leaving her lips wet and swollen. “Not yet, my love.”
Ivy’s brows drew together.
“You do not like to be teased?” he asked.
“I do not know. It is frustrating.”
He nodded in understanding. “I can stop, if you want. I can be more direct. But if you wish to try it, I promise it will be rewarding in the end.”