Gareth: Lord of Rakes by Grace Burrowes

theatre early—there is time—and I think you might enjoy it, Felicity.” Though perhaps he shouldn’t have admitted as much, lest she refuse him on that basis alone.
    “Must we?”
    She could not have sounded less enthusiastic, which suggested confronting their bargain in this manner—a vulgar, purely physical encounter in a moving coach—might free him from further dealings with her.
    “We don’t have to, but I want to.” As much as he wanted free of his obligations to her, the male animal in him also wanted to put his mouth on her sex and experience her reactions. He wanted to give her the kind of shocking pleasure no decent, plodding husband ever would, even if it was only this once.
    “May we douse the lamps?”
    “All but one,” he allowed, because he wanted to see her face when she came. He should be allowed that much for his sacrifice. He took off his hat and extinguished the carriage’s interior lighting, save one lantern that he turned down to a small flame. Next, he draped a lap robe on the floor—sore knees being no kind of addition to arousal—then lowered himself to kneel before Felicity’s tightly clenched knees.
    He hadn’t swived in a coach for years, which suggested sheer novelty had something to do with the arousal coursing through him.
    “Your job, Felicity, is to relax. I am not going to touch your breasts, though you should certainly touch yourself if you feel so inclined…” He dropped his voice to a low, sensual near-whisper, lest the damned coachman be entertained. “I will explain to you what I’m about as we go along, and you should ask questions if they occur to you. You must, of course, tell me if you are at all uncomfortable.”
    He gave her a moment by unfastening his cloak and folding it up beside her on the seat.
    “Why do you spring these maneuvers on me when I’m not expecting them?” She sounded peevish, much as he’d felt peevish when she’d sprung her situation on him weeks ago.
    “I spring them on you so you will not fret in anticipation, sweetheart. Anxiety is a close cousin to pain, and I would not for the world bring you discomfort.” He slid her slippers off both feet and began massaging her stocking-clad feet, which were, literally, cold.
    “I am uncomfortable,” Felicity muttered as she braced herself back against the squabs, one hand covering her stomach. Beneath her skirts, Gareth slid his hands along her calves, then around her knees.
    She would, of course, make him work for it. He should have expected nothing less, and yet… even the woman’s knees were silky.
    “Let me rephrase myself: it is no end of diverting to make you uncomfortable, Felicity, but I would never bring you physical pain, though I’m sure we’ll have more to say on that topic as it relates to your clientele. Now, hush, close your eyes, and relax. You have much to learn, and it is my privilege to disabuse you of your ignorance.”
    Though hopefully, not of her innocence, not entirely.
    She concurred with a terse nod.
    “Permission granted,” he murmured, letting his hands trail up under her skirts as far as her thighs. “There are salient terms with which you are unfamiliar, so attend me.” In the coach’s deep shadows, her face was set in lines of dread and steely resignation, her eyes closed tightly, and her hands fisted on the seat.
    She was braced for him to toss up her skirts and fall upon her like a starving wolf, which in some ways might be kinder to her, though he simply wasn’t capable of it.
    Not with her, not tonight.
    “The surface of a woman’s inner thigh,” he began, stroking both thighs and pressing them wider as he spoke, “is a sensual delight to both man and woman. I enjoy it because it is so smooth, warm, and forbidden. You enjoy it because my touch here evokes anticipation of my touch here.” He slid his hand higher, so he was almost brushing her curls. Again he brought a slight pressure to bear, pushing her legs gently apart. He contented