Seduced by His Touch by Tracy Anne Warren

ear, drawing a quiver from her this time.
    “Please.”
    He smiled, slow and intimate. “Please what?”
    “We’re in a theater.”
    “Yes, but in this dark corner no one can see.”
    “What about Aunt Jane?”
    “She is busy watching the play.” Angling his head, he caught her earlobe between his teeth and gave a light, playful nip.
    Her eyelashes fluttered and she bit her own lip to hold back a sigh.
    “I could do more,” he promised in a low, suggestive tone.
    Her eyes turned to his, heavy-lidded and beseeching. “Don’t.”
    “Are you sure?”
    She stared, the play forgotten. “Yes.”
    He met her gaze for a long moment before taking pity and easing away. As he did, he reached for her hand again, causing her to tense. “Just relax,” he told her softly. “It’s only your hand.”
    With a slight nod, she relented, allowing him to cradle her palm inside his.
    They sat just so for the next two minutes, watching the performance with their hands clasped.
    Unable to resist another foray, he eased open one of the pearl buttons on her glove, then a second. Ever so gently, he stroked the warm, translucent skin on the inner curve of her wrist, moving his fingers in a seductive, circular glide.
    Her hand trembled, quickened breath soughing from between her lips. Suddenly he was glad for the noisy action of the play.
    For some little while, he continued touching her in that way, learning the feel of her delicate veins and sinew. Then, needing more, he opened another button.
    Her breath caught as he inserted his forefinger, sliding it in a silky caress over the sensitive length of her palm.
    She shuddered, her eyes falling closed.
    Forward and back he went, then forward and back again. And again.
    The symbolic imagery worked its spell on him as well, his groin stiffening painfully beneath his evening breeches. Hard and throbbing with need, he knew he had reached his limit. With one last wandering caress, he withdrew, taking time to patiently rebutton her glove.
    Glancing over at her, he saw the flags of color in her cheeks and the bright glaze of desire visible in her eyes. It took every ounce of his control not to pull her into his arms and claim her mouth for a hot, wet kiss. Fighting the urge to draw her to him rather than away, he carefully returned her hand to her lap.
    Gulping down an unsteady breath, Grace curled the fingers he’d freed into a fist and strove to calm the sensations whizzing like fireworks through her system.
    All evening she’d been trying to place some much needed distance between herself and Jack—emotionally, anyway, considering the fact that she’d had no choice but to accompany him and Aunt Jane to the theater tonight as promised. Because ever since Terrence had taken his leave, their conversation had been replaying itself in her mind with distressing frequency.
    Clearly, Terrence was right about Jack’s affinity for women—he had only to snap his fingers and a multitude would come running. Nor did she doubt he was the gamester Terrence claimed, given his remarkable talent with cards. And as for his intentions toward her…if his ardent kisses were anything to judge by, he wasn’t planning to lead her down the paths of virtue and self-restraint anytime soon.
    He was a rake doing what rakes did best.
    Sadly, her meager efforts to erect some mental barriers against him were proving worthless. One touch and she’d turned as malleable as clay. A single caress and she’d been his willing supplicant—longing for more.
    And he didn’t even have to kiss me!
    What she needed, she realized, was time to think. Time that did not include Jack Byron’s company.
    To her relief, he made no further romantic overtures for the remainder of the play, conducting himself like a perfect gentleman rather than the rogue he truly was.
    When the performance ended, her aunt excused herself for a few moments to go speak with a friend—leaving Grace and Jack alone.
    “I thought I would stop by tomorrow