Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

“Indeed? And what are those?”

“I’m surprised that a woman familiar with Brightmore’s Ladies’ Guide needs to ask.”

At his mention of the Guide , her breath caught. She knew, of course, what he referred to. “Unlike you, I read it months ago. I fear my memory isn’t as fresh as yours.”

“Ah. Then allow me to remind you. According to Brightmore, Today’s Modern Woman should not hesitate to insist upon getting what she wants, be it in the drawing room or in the bedchamber-even if she has to tie up her man to get it.”

Genevieve’s heart began to beat in slow, hard thuds. She’d written those words-or rather, dictated them to Catherine because Genevieve’s hands had rendered writing so uncomfortable-never dreaming she’d hear a man recite them back to her. And so exactly. Clearly that passage had left an impression. “So you believe that a woman can overpower a man with ropes?”

“Not unless he’s willing. As for ropes…” He shook his head. “Something softer, such as a satin ribbon, would be much more…pleasurable.”

His quiet, husky tone dared her to contradict him. Which she needed to, of course. They were in a public place. Anyone might overhear them. Certainly anyone observing them would see the way he was looking at her. As if he wanted to devour her. And this conversation…it was completely improper. Beyond the pale. She needed to end this. Now.

Yet when she parted her lips, no words came forth. Nor could she pull her gaze away from his.

“Of course, if the lady wasn’t quick to do the overpowering, she might find herself overpowered instead,” he murmured.

An image of herself sprawled in her bed, her wrists bound with satin ribbons and him looming over her flashed through her mind.

Desire gushed through her, hardening her nipples, swelling the aching folds between her thighs, dampening her drawers. She felt flushed and out of breath and, damnation, she needed to sit down before her shaky knees gave away the fact that she felt less than steady.

As if he read her mind, he pointed to a copse of trees ahead, on the fringe of the festivities. “There’s a bench over there. Would you like to sit down?”

Not trusting her voice, she nodded and quickened her pace, resolved that she’d sit only as long as she needed to to regain her composure, then she’d plead a headache and beg off from his company. Clearly, her instincts that had warned her there was more to his trip to Little Longstone than he’d told her had been wrong. She now felt fairly confident his reasons for being here had nothing to do with Charles Brightmore. Which meant they had nothing to do with her. Which meant there was no reason to prolong their outing or to see him again. She would return to her cottage, resume her routine of visiting the springs to ease the pain in her hands, and forget all about Simon Cooper.

Unfortunately, a little voice inside her whispered that forgetting about this man who had reawakened wants and needs she’d thought long buried would prove very challenging indeed.

“SO TELL ME, Mrs. Ralston, what else do you enjoying doing aside from reading and indulging your weakness for artwork?”

The instant they were seated on the wooden bench, Simon tossed out the question as a matter of self-preservation. He’d suggested they sit because the sensual waters their conversation had drifted into had made it difficult for him to walk without limping. The image that had haunted him since watching her in her bedchamber, of her tying his hands with her satin hair ribbons, had roared into his mind, resulting in yet another Genevieve Ralston-inspired arousal. Bloody hell, he hadn’t suffered so many unwanted erections since he was a green lad.

No doubt part of the problem was the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman for several months, a situation that confounded him, since he’d had ample opportunity to end his celibacy at a number of soirées. However, none of the ladies, in spite of their willingness and beauty, had lit more than a superficial spark within him. He wasn’t quite certain when his liking for purely physical, emotionally meaningless liaisons had waned, but there was no denying that over the past year or so it had. Until, it seems, he’d set eyes on Genevieve Ralston. One look at her in that damn soaked chemise, and a purely physical, emotionally meaningless liaison was all he could think about.

He shifted his sleeping puppy more comfortably into the crook of his arm, and in spite of himself his lips twitched. He hadn’t really been looking to purchase a dog, but as it had provided a perfect pretext to entice Mrs. Ralston into meeting him at the festival, he’d seized the opportunity. Otherwise, he feared, she might have refused his invitation, even though he sensed she found him attractive. Or perhaps she didn’t. Unlike most women, he found her frustratingly difficult to read.

“I enjoy spending time in my garden,” she answered.

Relief rushed through him. The garden. Excellent. Nothing sensual about that. “I saw something of it when I walked to your home yesterday. The grounds are lovely.”

“Thank you. I find it very peaceful.”

“And so well-tended. Perhaps you’d share the name of your gardener so I could pass it along to Dr. Oliver? I’m afraid his shrubs have become overgrown since he left Little Longstone.”

“I’m actually in need of a new gardener myself. My dear friend Catherine used to help me-we’d spend hours together in the garden, but she recently married and now lives in London. Baxter’s taken care of things since she left, but I’m afraid he has trouble telling the difference between what is and isn’t a weed. And given his tendency to stomp about…” She chuckled. “I think he’s scared several plants to death.”

Simon nodded. “Gardening requires a delicate touch.”

Her eyes took on a wistful expression. “Yes. I used to do it all myself…” Her gaze drifted down to her gloved hands which she’d hidden among the folds of her pelisse. “But as the garden grew, it became more than I could handle alone.”

He followed her gaze. He noted she kept her hands out of sight as much possible, even though she wore gloves. She’d even worn them in her house during his visit yesterday, an oddity to be sure. He recalled how pained she’d looked when she’d been writing, the cream she’d rubbed into her hands in her bedchamber before donning her gloves to sleep, and her mention of the therapeutic springs. Clearly she’d suffered some sort of accident or injury. Curiosity jabbed him, but he pushed it away. If he pushed for too much information too soon, he feared scaring her off, and he couldn’t risk that before he had his letter. Still, he needed to know more about her, needed to establish a connection between them. A connection of trust.

Before he could proceed, however, a young boy Simon judged to be perhaps eight, approached him, his round-eyed gaze fixed on Beauty.

“That’s a fine puppy, sir,” the lad said, drawing nearer. “May I pet him?”

“He’s a she,” Simon said with a smile. “And yes you may. But I warn you, if she wakes up, she’ll want to slather you with doggie kisses.”

The boy smiled, revealing a gap-toothed grin. “That’s all right, sir. I like doggie kisses.” He reached out and ran a slightly grubby hand over the dog’s soft fur. “What’s her name?”

“Beauty.”

The boy’s grin deepened. “And she’s sleeping-just like the fairy tale.” His expression turned serious. “ ’Cept she’s a dog, not a princess. And I ain’t a prince.”

“Perhaps once she kisses you, you’ll turn into one,” Simon said.

The boy chuckled. “Doubt it. I’m going to be a sailor. Like my da.”