Chapter 12
The hunting lodge was colder inside than it appeared from the outside, but the moment they slipped through the warped door—boots squelching on old stone, breath clouding in the air—it did not matter.
Lottie turned the lock with a sharp click, then turned back to face her apparent saviour, undecided whether she meant to kiss or kill.
The place was an excellent location for either. A more prudent young lady might have found this alarming, but for Lottie’s purposes, it was very convenient.
Deverell leant a shoulder against the door. “Shall I assume you have brought me here for murder? Is that your forfeit?”
Lottie tilted her head. “I have not yet decided.”
He folded his arms, and she could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. This, naturally, made murder the more tempting option.
She stepped towards him. Her riding habit clung damply to her calves, her gloves were stained with moss and mud, and her pulse was still racing, not from the win or the jump, but from the mortifying memory of his hands at her waist. It was one thing to win a race.
It was quite another to require assistance getting down from the site of one’s own triumph, and to discover that she rather enjoyed being rescued.
Lottie did not care for the imbalance. If Mr Deverell wished to stand there looking handsome and muddy, and insufferably pleased with himself, then he could suffer a little in return.
He could be made to lose that composure and discover, however briefly, the peculiar indignity of not knowing where to put his hands, his eyes, or his clever tongue.
In short, he could be made the fool.
“I have decided on your first forfeit.”
“Have you now, Miss Tolliver?” His gaze sharpened, but his smile only deepened. “And shall I be permitted to survive it?”
“That depends entirely upon your performance.”
“Ah.” He pushed away from the door. “Then I shall endeavour not to disappoint. What have you in mind?”
“Well,” she began, as though discussing nothing more than the weather, “I have already had your mouth upon mine. And while it was quite enjoyable, I now find myself curious about the remainder of your talents.”
His eyes sparkled beneath raised brows, but he said nothing.
“I should like to see,” she continued, removing one glove with the soft slide of leather over skin, “how good you are with your hands.”
“My hands,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Both of them?” He looked entirely innocent, which was to say, not innocent in the least.
“Clearly.”
“There are,” he said, his voice lower now, but still threaded through with amusement, “many things I could do with my hands, Miss Tolliver. Are you quite sure you understand what you are asking?”
Lottie felt heat climb into her cheeks and hated him for it. “I won,” she said, drawing her second glove free with rather more force than was necessary. “And you agreed. One favour. No refusals. No questions.”
“I do not recall agreeing to no questions.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are being difficult on purpose. If you ask questions, you are not performing the favour. You are delaying it.”
“I could delay a great deal with my hands, Charlotte.”
She made a small sound of impatience. He really was quite aggravating, and the point was to make a fool of him, not the other way around. “Show me, then.”
His amusement dimmed by a degree, deepening into something less safe. “If you insist upon issuing commands in that tone,” he said, “you must not blame me when I take them seriously.”
“I know,” she replied, and she heard the breathlessness in her own voice. “That is rather the point.”
He reached up slowly and tugged at the fingers of one glove, peeling it away with the kind of patience that made her throat go dry. He peeled off his other glove, and dropped both to the floor. “I shall require very specific instruction.”
Lottie’s breath snagged. She felt alive and wild and hungry, and she wanted a man’s hands between her thighs.
“Then kneel.” She stepped back until the backs of her thighs met the bench. “And listen.”
He stilled as she perched upon the bench.
“I want your hands,” she said, her breath shakier now, “beneath my skirts.”
It was a ridiculous request, and she wondered whether he might refuse.
Surely, as a gentleman, he would. To kiss her was one thing, but to place his hands on her intimately was quite another.
One part of her hoped he would blush and stammer, and the other part of her hoped he might do exactly as she asked.
There was a beat of silence before Mr Deverell knelt without a word. His coat fell in soft folds around him and his hands reached forwards to lift her skirts up around her thighs.
He was obeying, and she didn’t mind it at all. The cold air licked up her stockings. He paused at the edge of her garter, his hands warm against her skin. She closed her eyes, just for a second, and let herself feel the burn of it.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice even lower. “Where. And I will oblige.”
She opened her eyes. This was truly happening, and he was not the least bit nervous or flustered.
Well… there was nothing for it but to continue. “There,” she breathed. “Between.”
When he touched her through the thin linen of her drawers, she bit back an “oh.”
He looked up at her from beneath dark lashes. “Like this?”
She nodded, quickly and wordlessly.
He remained still. “I require instruction, Miss Tolliver. It is your forfeit, after all.”
Oh, bother. She bit her lip—it was she who was losing her composure.
“I want—” she began and faltered. No—she was in control of this encounter, and she would ask for precisely what she desired. “I want you to touch me properly.”
“Properly? What do you mean by that?”
Her cheeks flamed. “Skin to skin.”
At that, he made a sound—a low rumble of approval—and parted the linen at the seam, his fingers slipping easily between the folds of the garment.
Still, he did not touch where she wanted, but instead stroked her thigh, along the inside curve where the skin was softest. He used the back of his knuckle first, tracing the line where her stocking ended, and then higher, where there was no protection from his touch at all.
Lottie squirmed, and her hands tightened on the bench.
“Is this what you meant?” he asked, voice rough and far too pleased with himself. “Properly?”
“Not precisely,” she managed.
His touch drifted higher, circling her inner thigh, brushing maddeningly close to where she ached for him, but always veering off. It was untenable.
“Jasper.”
He paused at the use of his first name, looking up at her under his dark lashes, and she could not help but see how ravenous his eyes were. She was not the only one desiring. “Yes, Charlotte?” he breathed through a smile.
His hand was languid, stroking in slow arcs at her thigh. She let out a strangled sound as his thumb brushed the outer edge of her sex, tracing the lips lightly, so lightly, but still not touching her where she wanted.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, “but I want to be sure I get it just right. Shall I stop?”
“No.” Her voice came out hoarse and more desperate than intended. “Do not stop.”
She gasped as his fingers glided through the slick heat of her. He still did not touch where she needed him most. He circled it, passed over it, and toyed with her as though it were a game.
“Please,” she whispered.
He glanced up. “Please what?”
“You know what, you horrid man.”
“I do,” he agreed, pausing just above the spot that throbbed. “But I would very much like to hear you say it.”
She met his eyes, and her pride warred with pleasure for half a second, and lost. “Touch me there,” she whispered. “Where it’s… worst.”
He smiled, and finally, finally, his thumb pressed directly over the pulsing bundle of nerves. Her whole body arched.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Yes… God—there.”
He rewarded her with another slow stroke right over that aching peak, making her hips jerk in response. She could not help it and could not stop it; her whole body wanted him.
He paused. “More?”
“Yes,” she said, panting. “More.”
He circled it again, drawing her wetness and spreading it. His other hand held her steady by the hip. She could hardly bear it.
“More,” she moaned.
He only stroked slower, teasing her now, the cruel man.
“More what?”
She whimpered.
“Say it.”
“You’re vile,” she choked.
“Oh, I know. But this is led entirely by you, Miss Tolliver. If you want something, you must name it.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Damn it. She might have won the forfeit, but she had lost entirely. “I want your fingers inside me.”
He rewarded her instantly. He slid one finger inside her, long and warm and exquisitely slow. She gasped aloud and her whole body clenched.
He groaned. “Christ, you’re tight.”
He stayed still for a moment, but his other hand never left its post, still rubbing in soft circles that made her head fall back.
“You are soaked.”
She laughed breathlessly, feeling wanton and not caring a stitch. “I have been soaked since you kissed me at the races.”
His chuckle was low and wicked, and her hips began to move against him as he found a rhythm, each slow thrust making her gasp and moan at the friction and the impossibly filthy sound of it.
“I could keep you like this for hours, you know,” he said, his voice ragged. Though her eyes were closed, she could feel his lips against her knee.
She let out a broken sound, hips chasing his hand. “You should not say such things.”
He hummed low in his chest, and it vibrated through her. “You should not want such things.”
And then—oh God—he added a second finger. She cried out, spreading her legs wider to accommodate the stretch. His fingers filled her, scissored gently, then pressed deeper still. He curled them inside her, finding the spot that made her cry out, and stroked.
“Oh God,” she breathed. “Oh… there.”
“Yes,” he said, circling her aching peak again with his thumb, his fingers still curling. “I know precisely where.”
She could not hold on. Her head dropped forwards, hands fisting in his hair now, dragging him closer—not for a kiss, nor for anything romantic, but because she was coming apart and needed something to hold on to. “Oh. Do not stop. Do not stop, for I am—”
“Yes,” he growled. “I know.”
It tore through her like lightning—violent and glorious and endless. She bucked against his hand, her body seizing in pleasure so sharp it was near pain. He did not stop his ministrations, but drew her out, dragging her body through every trembling peak.
“Too much,” she gasped, but her body betrayed her, still grinding against his hand.
He leant in close, brushing her ear with his lips. “Give me another,” he murmured. “One more. Just one.”
With a ragged moan, her body clenched again. She was not even sure where she was any longer, except that her legs were spread as wide as she could make them, and perhaps one was over his shoulder now as she shattered all over again.
When she opened her eyes at last, she found him watching her, his eyes bright and his mouth parted in both hunger and mirth. One of her legs was indeed hooked over his shoulder.
“And to think,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her thigh, “that was just the first favour.”