Chapter 12 #2
“For any number of reasons,” he said almost absently, “one might rely upon one’s own touch rather than seek pleasure from another.”
“Where do they touch?”
“Anywhere that brings pleasure. For a woman, the breasts and nipples can be particularly sensitive. For others, it might be the skin at the throat, or the tender flesh between the thighs before one reaches the pussy.” His gaze remained upon her.
“There are many places upon the body that respond keenly to touch. Some simply feel pleasurable, while others can stir sexual excitement because they possess a great many nerve endings.”
“Is it the same as sharing such intimacy with another?”
“No.” His gaze held hers, steady and certain. “Nothing compares to the touch of another who knows precisely what to do with you.”
The soft opening of the door halted their conversation. Lady Lily entered with unhurried, languid grace. She wore a sheer white peignoir that clung lightly to her form, the fabric so fine it revealed more than it concealed, drifting about her like mist as she crossed the room.
Lord Raine inclined his head in a brief bow. “Ladies.” Without another word, he turned toward the door.
Darcy’s shoulders eased, a quiet release of tension she had not wished to acknowledge. She was relieved he meant to leave, for only then might she draw a steady breath without the distraction of his evocative scent lingering too close.
“My lord,” Lady Lily called, her voice soft yet edged with invitation. “Pray remain. I may require your assistance before the session is done.”
Darcy went utterly still.
I may require your assistance…
The words lodged like a barb beneath Darcy’s ribs, and a sharp, instinctive alarm swept through her before she mastered it. It was not her place to object. This was Lady Lily’s choosing, and Darcy had no authority here beyond her art.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she forced her body to relax, though a faint awareness lingered beneath her skin.
She would ignore him, and resolute in that decision, Darcy turned her full attention to Lady Lily and reached for her brush, steadying her hand as she prepared to begin.
Lily neither spoke nor appeared to require instruction.
She moved to the chaise and reclined with effortless elegance, her head tipping back slightly as though she listened to something within herself rather than to the world around her.
She remained still for a moment before slowly lifting one hand.
Darcy watched as Lady Lily’s fingers began with a touch so light it seemed almost absentminded, tracing the line of her throat before drifting down the graceful curve of her collarbone.
Darcy’s breath slowed, her focus narrowing as she began to paint, her hand moving instinctively across the canvas.
Lady Lily’s touch deepened. Her fingers lingered now, pressing slightly, exploring the contours of her own body with a familiarity that startled Darcy.
Something unguarded entered the caress, something at once private and profoundly revealing.
Darcy had never imagined such a thing. The intimacy disconcerted her, yet she could not look away.
Her gaze sharpened, her artist’s mind striving to capture not merely the form, but the feeling that seemed to animate it.
She followed each subtle shift in Lady Lily’s expression: the parting of her lips upon a quiet breath and the faint flush rising along her skin.
Pleasure slowly loosened Lily’s composure until Darcy recognized a kind of surrender in her. Her breathing grew uneven, a soft sound escaping as her hand slipped between her parted thighs.
Darcy watched, transfixed. Did Lady Lily imagine someone as she touched herself?
Did her mind conjure a presence, perhaps a lover, a memory, or a face that gave meaning to what she felt?
Or was it something else entirely? Was it instead a turning inward, a yielding not to affection but to the body alone, to sensations unbound by sentiment or tenderness?
Those questions lingered in Darcy’s mind, quickening her pulse and sharpening her awareness of the earl as she wondered what occupied his thoughts when he pleasured himself.
Heat bloomed across her cheeks beneath the mask, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth, struggling to regain her composure and banish such wayward musings.
Her strokes grew more certain as she captured the arch of Lady Lily’s body, the subtle tension that coiled beneath her movements, the quiet rise and fall of her breath as bliss seemed to build, to crest. Darcy became acutely aware of herself: of the warmth gathering low within her, the way her breathing deepened and caught, and the soft, insistent quickening of her pulse in response to what she beheld.
The response was unfamiliar and unsettling, yet impossible to ignore.
She shifted slightly upon her stool, her fingers tightening around the brush for a moment before she forced them to steady.
Her gaze did not waver from the canvas, though her thoughts had begun to scatter, her senses heightened in a way that felt dangerous.
Darcy had thought herself composed and removed from the scenes she painted.
Now she understood how fragile that illusion had been.
The room seemed warmer, and although she remained upright and controlled at her easel, she could not deny the quiet, insistent sensual awareness that had taken root within her.
Is this desire?
Darcy said nothing. She painted and watched, paying close attention to the subtle shifts in expression that would bring her work to life.
Lily’s body responded as though guided by instinct alone, her breathing deepening, her lips parting on soft, unguarded sounds that filled the room with raw and shocking carnality.
The brush trembled faintly between Darcy’s fingers before she steadied it.
Lily arched, her movements growing more urgent, her expression loosening into something unrestrained and wanton.
Darcy felt another strange pull, a tightening low within her own body, as though some newly awakened part of her answered in kind.
Darcy had not known a woman could bring herself to such a state, or crest once and then again.
Darcy’s breath slowed, her gaze fixed, almost enraptured, as Lily shuddered and stilled, only to begin once more, chasing that same height with a hunger that seemed to deepen rather than diminish.
At last, Lady Lily’s hand stilled. Her chest rose and fell, her body flushed and softened by the intensity of what she had wrought within herself.
Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze.
“My lord,” she murmured, her voice low, languid, threaded with wicked invitation. She extended her hand toward him, beckoning. “Come to me. Ease what remains, for I find I desire more.”
Darcy’s hand stilled. Something sharp and immediate twisted through her, so sudden and fierce that it stole her breath. “No!”
The word left her before she could stop it. Darcy blinked, startled by herself, by the force of it, by the unfamiliar emotion that coiled tight within her chest.
“What?” Lily asked, confusion flickering briefly across her face.
“I said no.” The thought of Lord Raine touching Lady Lily, of his hands moving over her, was intolerable. Silence stretched. Darcy forced herself to lower her gaze, to gather what composure she could, though her pulse still raced with that fierce, unwelcome intensity.
“My lord?” Lily said, mild annoyance threading through her voice.
Darcy glanced at him then and realized he had not moved. Lord Raine regarded Lady Lily with a calm that bordered on indifference, his posture relaxed, as though the invitation held no sway over him.
Lily pouted) and arched with a languid, feline grace. “My lord, I want you to—”
“No, Lily. I am not interested.”
His refusal, delivered without even a trace of the charm he so often employed, stilled Lady Lily at once.
“I think,” she said at last, a note of frustration creeping into her tone as she rose, “that you have seen sufficient for your painting, Miss Red.”
Darcy inclined her head, her voice steadier now. “Yes. I have what I require.”