6. Sight #2
“It’s…heat.” She struggled with the words, her lips trembling slightly as vocabulary failed her. “Like sunlight on skin, but more…intense, concentrated where your eyes linger.”
He circled to face her again, letting his gaze drop deliberately to her lips. “Here?”
A soft gasp escaped her. “Yes.”
“And here?” His eyes traced the elegant line of her throat.
“Everett…” His Christian name fell from her lips. It seemed most natural somehow.
The sound of it snapped something in him. He stepped closer until barely a breath separated them. “Look at me, Emma.”
Her eyes met his, pupils dilated with desire, all her careful observations forgotten as she swayed toward him.
“This is lesson one,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure who he was instructing anymore. “How a simple look can undo all our careful restraint.”
“Is this…” She wet her lips, the gesture making him suppress a groan. “Is this what my sister meant about sparks?”
“No.” He leaned closer, his lips a whisper from her ear. “This is merely kindling. The sparks come later.”
Her sharp intake of breath made him pull back slightly, needing to see her face. The proper Miss Brown was unravelling before his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, and that brilliant analytical mind struggled to catalogue sensations that defied documentation.
“Your breathing has altered,” she observed.
“As has yours.” He watched her chest rise and fall rapidly beneath her bodice. “Tell me, does this feel like your previous…experiments?”
“No,” she whispered. “Those were clinical. This feels…”
“Dangerous?” He supplied, guilt twisting with desire in his gut. If she only knew how dangerous. For both of them.
“Yes.” Her eyes locked with his. “I find I don’t want to stop.”
Lord help him, neither did he. The way she was looking at him now, equal parts trust and awakening desire, made his blood rush southward with alarming speed.
Every fibre of his being ached to crush her against him, but no.
He wanted—no, needed—to be worthy of that trust, even as baser instincts screamed at him to claim her soft mouth with his own and damn the consequences.
“Emma,” he started, his resolve wavering.
“Please,” she interrupted. “Don’t stop the lesson yet.”
Everett stepped back, running a hand through his hair. The motion seemed to fascinate her. He caught her studying the flex of his arm, the way his borrowed shirt pulled across his shoulders.
“The first lesson is nearly complete,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice.
“But I’ve barely begun to understand.”
“Haven’t you?” He met her gaze deliberately. “Tell me what you’ve learned about visual pleasure.”
She straightened, falling back on her analytical nature. “That it creates physical responses: elevated pulse, shortness of breath, heightened skin sensitivity—”
“No.” He circled behind her again, unable to face those trust-filled eyes. “Tell me what you felt, not what you observed.”
“I felt…” She paused, and he could almost hear her mind working to abandon clinical terms. “I felt as though my skin was too tight. As though every nerve was straining toward you. When you looked at my lips, I could almost taste—” She stopped abruptly.
“Almost taste what?” His voice had grown rough again.
“You,” she whispered, the confession hanging in the air between them.
The word nearly broke his resolve. “Lesson one is complete,” he said quickly. “Tomorrow, we explore scent.”
“But—”
“Trust me, Miss Brown. Some lessons require time to absorb.”
And distance, he thought, watching her facade crack further. Distance to remember why he was here, why he couldn’t let himself drown in those wondering eyes.
He forced himself to turn away, each step toward the door requiring iron will. Behind him, he heard her soft exhale, almost a sigh. He didn't dare look back, knowing his resolve would shatter if he saw her expression. Only when he was safely in the corridor did he allow himself to breathe.
In his borrowed chamber, Everett paced like a caged beast, her whispered “you” echoing in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The way she’d swayed toward him, lips parted, trust and desire warring in those remarkable eyes.
His body burned with unfulfilled longing. The memory of her quickened breath, the flutter of her pulse beneath delicate skin, the way she’d studied him with such hungry curiosity, it all conspired to drive him mad.
Sinking onto the bed, he surrendered to forbidden thoughts of Miss Brown.
Gripping his member that had grown under her attention, he imagined her scientific interest turning to passion, her clinical touch transforming into caresses.
His hand moved of its own accord, seeking relief from the exquisite torture of their lesson, from his fascination with her skills that equalled her beauty, from her innocent licentiousness.
He imagined her breasts bared to him, her nipples coiled with arousal and darkened from his caresses. His cock then entered her cunny, stretching her to the limit, her juice overflowing, each thrust eliciting a moan from her as her nails dug into his arms.
Release, when it came, left him feeling more wanting than satisfied. Tomorrow they would explore scent, and God help him; he wasn’t sure how much of this sweet torment he could endure without touching her.
Sleep eluded him for hours, his dreams haunted by blue eyes and whispered confessions of desire.
Emma stood before her mirror, fingers trembling as she unpinned her hair.
Her clinical mind tried desperately to categorise the evening’s sensations: elevated pulse, dilated pupils, heightened sensitivity.
But science failed to capture the way her skin still tingled where his gaze had lingered or how her body ached with unfamiliar yearning.
She’d touched countless bodies in her work, had even known intimate relations, yet nothing had prepared her for this overwhelming awareness. The way he had looked at her—not as a nurse, not as a lady, but as a woman—had awakened something primitive and hungry beneath her controlled exterior.
In her bed, sleep proved elusive. Her nightgown felt too constraining, the sheets too rough against her sensitised skin. She pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the unfamiliar ache. What would his hands feel like, she wondered, if his mere gaze could provoke such responses?
“Research,” she whispered into the darkness, trying to maintain some pretence of empirical study. But there was nothing clinical about the way her body responded to memories of his voice, his presence, the heat of him standing behind her.
Her fingers strayed to her throat, tracing the path his eyes had taken. Then to her breast, seeking to understand these new sensations. She caressed her aching nipples, then pinched, biting her lip to stifle a gasp at the unexpected pleasure.
Tomorrow they would explore scent. The thought sent another wave of heat through her body. What other lessons awaited? And how would she maintain her composure through six more days of such exquisite torture?
Sleep, when it finally came, brought dreams of dark eyes and whispered instructions, of desire that defied all scientific explanation.