not do. The goods I have to offer would have no appeal to your relations. I hope they have unique appeal to you.”
She should pull away. She should ring for the blasted tea tray. She should… keep her eyes open. “Douglas, what are you doing?”
“Indulging myself, which is part of the bargain I envisage, but by no means all. And the door is locked, Guinevere. Mrs. Kitts is off at market, and it’s half day for the footmen. We will not be disturbed.”
Douglas and his details. He rubbed her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger, slowly, which was not a detail when Gwen had never experienced that particular sensation before.
She rose off the sofa on shaky knees, the hummingbirds having migrated to her limbs and even her earlobes. She moved a quartet of candle holders on the mantel so they were evenly spaced. “What goods are we discussing, Douglas?”
He stood as well and prowled toward her, but she did not turn. The heat of the fire was before her, and Douglas stood immediately behind her.
“ I am the goods in question. Myself, Guinevere. I offer myself into your temporary keeping.”
Gwen had to brace herself with a hand on the mantel as Douglas’s breath fanned over her neck. “You offer yourself on consignment?”
His lips touched that vulnerable place where her shoulder and throat met, the softest, most tender caress Gwen had endured in her entire life. When his arms slipped around her waist, she was grateful for the support.
“I offer my body for your delectation and pleasure,” Douglas said. “I have something more to offer you as well, Guinevere Hollister.”
Two thoughts collided in Gwen’s brain, the first being that she should stop him soon . He was presuming, and his civilities had shifted to improper advances, and those… they led to places Gwen ought not to be so interested in. Places she had not admitted to herself she might go with this man.
With any man, ever again.
The second thought was pernicious and wicked—also irresistible. Douglas would be a thorough, considerate, even lavish lover. He would attend to every detail, spare no effort, his discretion would be faultless, and his hands—
“What else do you offer, Douglas, that I haven’t been offered a hundred times before?”
The question she’d intended as starchy came out woebegone. His embrace became more snug, though surely Gwen imagined its protective quality.
“Firstly, you know I would marry you, were you to conceive my child.”
She did know it, but that mattered not at all, for she would never marry him. “Marriage is no inducement to me and never will be.”
“Secondly…” He paused and nuzzled her hair. She hadn’t known grown men suffered the urge or had the ability to nuzzle. “I would never, ever cause you discomfort or awkwardness, Guinevere. Copulation is supposed to be pleasurable for both parties, and I would do my utmost to share that pleasure with you.”
Douglas Allen’s utmost was tempting argument in itself.
“How often do you suppose a man has said words like that to me? Many men, for that matter, because they all seem to think I want to hear them.”
“But this man,” Douglas said, widening his stance, “is promising you pleasure and something else, Guinevere.”
Douglas’s promises were trustworthy. Even regarding this unexpected, dangerous, alluring topic—especially regarding this topic—his promises would be trustworthy. “What else do you offer?”
The part of her lost to caution wanted him to touch her breasts—ached for it, and yet Gwen knew Douglas would not presume that far without her permission.
“I would promise you control ,” Douglas said, his voice dropping to a purr. “When we couple, if we couple, it will be on your terms or not at all.”
His promise was dazzling, the secret wish Gwen did not voice even to herself: to have an intimate companion, somebody who knew her but did not ask her to sacrifice what remained of her reputation, her freedom, her
She should pull away. She should ring for the blasted tea tray. She should… keep her eyes open. “Douglas, what are you doing?”
“Indulging myself, which is part of the bargain I envisage, but by no means all. And the door is locked, Guinevere. Mrs. Kitts is off at market, and it’s half day for the footmen. We will not be disturbed.”
Douglas and his details. He rubbed her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger, slowly, which was not a detail when Gwen had never experienced that particular sensation before.
She rose off the sofa on shaky knees, the hummingbirds having migrated to her limbs and even her earlobes. She moved a quartet of candle holders on the mantel so they were evenly spaced. “What goods are we discussing, Douglas?”
He stood as well and prowled toward her, but she did not turn. The heat of the fire was before her, and Douglas stood immediately behind her.
“ I am the goods in question. Myself, Guinevere. I offer myself into your temporary keeping.”
Gwen had to brace herself with a hand on the mantel as Douglas’s breath fanned over her neck. “You offer yourself on consignment?”
His lips touched that vulnerable place where her shoulder and throat met, the softest, most tender caress Gwen had endured in her entire life. When his arms slipped around her waist, she was grateful for the support.
“I offer my body for your delectation and pleasure,” Douglas said. “I have something more to offer you as well, Guinevere Hollister.”
Two thoughts collided in Gwen’s brain, the first being that she should stop him soon . He was presuming, and his civilities had shifted to improper advances, and those… they led to places Gwen ought not to be so interested in. Places she had not admitted to herself she might go with this man.
With any man, ever again.
The second thought was pernicious and wicked—also irresistible. Douglas would be a thorough, considerate, even lavish lover. He would attend to every detail, spare no effort, his discretion would be faultless, and his hands—
“What else do you offer, Douglas, that I haven’t been offered a hundred times before?”
The question she’d intended as starchy came out woebegone. His embrace became more snug, though surely Gwen imagined its protective quality.
“Firstly, you know I would marry you, were you to conceive my child.”
She did know it, but that mattered not at all, for she would never marry him. “Marriage is no inducement to me and never will be.”
“Secondly…” He paused and nuzzled her hair. She hadn’t known grown men suffered the urge or had the ability to nuzzle. “I would never, ever cause you discomfort or awkwardness, Guinevere. Copulation is supposed to be pleasurable for both parties, and I would do my utmost to share that pleasure with you.”
Douglas Allen’s utmost was tempting argument in itself.
“How often do you suppose a man has said words like that to me? Many men, for that matter, because they all seem to think I want to hear them.”
“But this man,” Douglas said, widening his stance, “is promising you pleasure and something else, Guinevere.”
Douglas’s promises were trustworthy. Even regarding this unexpected, dangerous, alluring topic—especially regarding this topic—his promises would be trustworthy. “What else do you offer?”
The part of her lost to caution wanted him to touch her breasts—ached for it, and yet Gwen knew Douglas would not presume that far without her permission.
“I would promise you control ,” Douglas said, his voice dropping to a purr. “When we couple, if we couple, it will be on your terms or not at all.”
His promise was dazzling, the secret wish Gwen did not voice even to herself: to have an intimate companion, somebody who knew her but did not ask her to sacrifice what remained of her reputation, her freedom, her