Chapter 6 #2
Instead, Lyon lowered his manual and described it: the dimensions, the faded ochre of the background, the way the stitching along the border was finer than the figures themselves, suggesting a different hand had done the edging.
The woman’s sleeve, rendered in a silk thread that had survived better than the wool around it, so it still caught the light when the rest had gone flat.
When he finished, Bonnie was staring at him.
“What?” he said.
“You have spent a great deal of time looking at that embroidery.”
“It’s in my study.”
“So is a great deal else.”
He picked up his manual. “I notice details. It’s how my mind works.”
She made a soft sound—not quite agreement, not quite a laugh—and looked back at her notes. Lyon wondered if she’d guessed how many times he’d frigged his own hand while studying those embroidered pieces of art.
A few minutes passed. Then he heard her gather her pages and cross the room toward him, and he looked up to find her standing beside his chair, manuscript in hand.
“I have written a description of the piece,” she said. “Would you tell me if it is right?”
He held out his hand for the pages. She passed them over, and instead of stepping back—instead of returning to her chair, or the window seat, or any of the considerable available space in this room—she leaned over his shoulder to point to the relevant passage.
Lyon went very still.
She was close enough that he could feel her warmth, close enough that her hair—that loose piece that was always escaping, the one he’d tucked back once without thinking—was near enough to his cheek that he could have turned his head and inhale and—
He looked at the manuscript.
She was pointing to a line. He made himself read it.
The figures appear to be in an attitude of tender congress.
“Here.” Lyon’s voice came out lower than intended. He touched his finger to the page, to that line, and was grateful to have something to distract from the way his cock was throbbing beneath his kilt. “I’d change congress. Sounds like a parliamentary debate.”
A breath escaped her, warm against his temple. “What would you use instead?”
He considered.
Bonnie hadn’t moved. He was exquisitely aware that she hadn’t moved, that she was still leaning over his shoulder with her hand resting on the arm of his chair, that if he turned his head now he would be making a decision he couldn’t unmake.
He thought about the chess game. About I want you to kiss me. About someday.
“Accord,” he said finally.
“Tender accord,” she murmured, as if testing the weight of it.
“Aye.”
She stayed one moment longer, and then she straightened as if nothing unusual had happened. Lyon looked at the fire, and the room settled back into its ordinary shape around them, except that it didn’t—not entirely, not for him.
He became aware, after a moment, that she was smiling at her manuscript with her lips pressed together, in the way she did when she was trying not to show something.
He became aware, after another moment, that he was watching her do it.
With a scowl at his own stupidity, Lyon slammed the manual shut and reached for his sketchbook instead. His hands needed something to do, and opened it to a fresh page.
“I could sketch them for ye,” he said, before he’d decided to say it, then caught his breath.
She looked up. He kept his eyes on the blank page in front of him, his pencil turning in his fingers.
“The embroideries. If ye need reproductions for yer book.” He shrugged, aiming for indifference and probably missing. “I’m accurate enough with technical drawings.”
There was a pause, and then she said, in a careful voice that suggested she was being very controlled about something, “You would do that for me?”
I would do anything for ye.
“Aye,” he choked instead.
Her smile bloomed, and he looked back at his sketchbook, and the blank page, and tried to remember what he’d been about to draw.
Shite.
Nay, that didn’t seem strong enough.
Shite fook damnation.
Closer.
Lyon’s heart was slamming against his ribs, his breathing coming too shallowly, as he prayed she would ignore his offer. Not read anything too deep into it.
Should’ve known it was a foolish hope.
Bonnie had stepped away from her notes and was now beaming at him.
“That would be amazing! The embroideries would be useful in my chapter on medieval life—especially medieval romantic life—but my efforts to reproduce them have been rather sub-par.”
He swallowed, his voice still tight when he managed, “Ye want me to sketch medieval pornography for ye?”
Her smile turned impish. “I have chosen a few of the tamer ones for my book. But…”
The way she leaned forward as she trailed off told him she’d absolutely done it on purpose, to tease him. And he found himself leaning forward as well, absolutely not minding it one bit.
“But what?” His gaze was on her lips. Because of course it was.
“But I believe I will request you reproduce a few of the other, less proper pieces of needlework. For me.”
“For yer personal use?”
He’d meant it as teasing, but even as he uttered the words, he knew they’d fallen flat.
But her lips curled upward, wickedly. He noticed because he couldn’t look away.
“I was thinking I could use it as a sort of study guide. Did you know that your sister recently acquired a manuscript called A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts?
It would have been written around the time those embroideries were being done—perhaps they are related somehow.
I have been considering trying to convince Lady Athena to allow me a limited print run of such a scandalous work, but… ”
Bonnie took a deep breath, and her tongue darted across her lower lip. “But I am not prepared for that yet. So yes, this would be for personal use. Do you think you could do the fellatio one for me?”
That was it.
That was his breaking point.
Her words—clever innuendo that they were—and the image of Bonnie lying in her bed, studying the sketch he’d made of the woman with her lips around a man’s cock…?
Well, Lyon was already damned, and this sent him well over the edge.
With a groan, he used his hold on her hands to pull her closer, and his lips claimed hers.
As soon as they did, he was overcome by a multitude of emotions.
Joy, because she tasted of everything good in the world…
but also fear and shame and guilt. He shouldn’t have touched her, not without her approval, but he couldn’t stop himself now, not when she whimpered slightly against his lips and opened her own.
He froze, wondering how he was going to gain the strength to pull away, but three things happened at once.
One: Her tongue darted between her lips to caress his, which told him she was very much interested in this kiss, if a bit unsure how to go about it.
Her first kiss, remember.
Two: Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, holding him in place, and pressing her glorious breasts against him. Beneath his kilt, his cock swelled against her belly, and he groaned with need.
Three: He knew with absolute certainty that Bonnie Oliphant would be trouble.
Now that he’d tasted her, now that he’d experienced life with her, now that he’d pictured her sitting in his library, laughing at something she’d read or debating theory with him…
how could he possibly afford to let her go?
How could he possibly afford not to?
When his palm clamped around her breast, she moaned and arched against him, allowing his lips to trail down her jawline. She was panting as hard as he was, and when she gyrated her hips against his hardness, he knew she was ready for his lessons.
Lyon’s mouth never left hers as his fingers went to work on her bodice. When it loosened, he tugged it down, baring her shoulders, then the swell of her breasts.
Bonnie was gasping now, her fingers tangled in his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp as if she couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. But there was no resistance in her body—only heat, only need.
“I want to kiss ye everywhere,” he murmured against her jaw, his voice rough with restraint.
Her answer was a broken gasp. “Yes.”
He didn’t hesitate.
His mouth trailed down her throat, tasting the sweetness of her skin—she’d been bathing with his soap these last few nights—and the flutter of her pulse beneath his tongue.
When he reached the delicate lace edging her corset, he reached inside and lifted free one breast, then the other.
They were full, heavy in his palms, the nipples already tight with arousal.
He groaned at the sight of them, at the way they darkened further when he rolled the peaks between his thumb and forefinger.
Bonnie jerked beneath his touch, a sharp inhale hissing between her teeth. He didn’t give her time to adjust—just lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the stiff bud before drawing it between his lips with a slow, deliberate suck.
“Lyon—!”
Her back arched, pressing her breast deeper into his mouth, and he rewarded her with a flick of his tongue, then the graze of his teeth.
She whimpered, her fingers clenching in his hair, her hips shifting restlessly against him.
He imagined he could feel the damp heat of her through the layers of her skirts, could smell the musk of her arousal, and it drove him mad.
His free hand slid down her body, palm flattening over the junction of her thighs. Even through the fabric, he could feel how swollen she was, how wet. He pressed his fingers against her, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp, her thighs trembling.
“Bonnie—” His voice was a growl, his control fraying. “Can I touch—?”
“Oh, God, please, Lyon!”
The desperation in her voice snapped the last of his restraint.
He surged forward, stumbling in his haste, and half-dragged her toward one of the deep leather chairs by the fireplace. He fell into it, pulling her down onto his lap. She fell into his lap without hesitation, her skirts riding up around her thighs, her breath coming in ragged little pants.