extracted from him was
getting harder and harder every day - along with a certain part of his male
anatomy. Being so close to the
delectable Susanna, now without even so much as a chaperone in sight, was sheer
torture.
And teaching her to dance so she could dance with other men? Pure hell.
He'd asked her father for permission to court her, but her father had
refused. Susanna was too young to know
her own mind, the older man had claimed. She had not yet gone into society, and deserved to have a wide field
from which to choose a husband. But would Nigel please teach her to dance in the meantime? She lacked confidence and could do with the
practice.
Besotted, he had agreed, just so he could be
close to her.
And now look at him. He had an
erection so hard he could break stones with it and there was no relief in
sight.
"You're scowling."
"Nonsense," he snapped. "I never scowl."
"And now you are snapping at
me." Her lower lip pouted into a
sulk as she pulled away from him. "I can't help it if I am no good at dancing. I swear there must be something wrong with my
legs. They just don't work like other
people's legs do."
A wicked thought crossed Nigel's mind. A thought so wicked that he should have
dismissed it immediately and punished himself for even
thinking it, but it had already taken root in his mind. "Something wrong with your legs?"
he said slowly, allowing the wickedness to blossom. " Come, let me
take a look at them to make sure they are not the problem."
Without hesitation, she raised her dress just
above her ankles.
Such beautiful ankles she had. Slim and shapely like the rest of her. He
swallowed hard. He had not seen so much
of her since she was a child and ran around tumbling on the lawn getting grass
in her hair.
"Well, do you see anything wrong with
them?"
He dropped to his knees and took one slippered foot in his hands. "Nothing obvious. But I will have to check them more closely to
make sure."
His breathing came short as he ran his fingers lightly, and then again with more confidence, over first one
ankle and then the other. "There is
nothing wrong with either ankle. Maybe
the problem is higher up."
She lifted her dress above her knees and looked
critically down at them. "You think
the problem may be there?"
He ran his hand up her stockinged calf to her knees. He was playing with
fire, he knew it, but he could not make himself stop. He had loved her so well, and for so long,
that he would take any excuse he could find to touch her. "They are slightly knobby," he said
with a shrug, holding back his laughter at the outraged look on her face. "But nothing that
would stop you from dancing like a butterfly."
"Butterflies don't dance. They fly." Her voice was a liquid pout that washed over
him like finely aged whisky.
His hands stilled at her knees. "Maybe the problem is higher
still."
She lifted her skirts a fraction higher, until
he caught a glimpse of the lace on her pantaloons. He'd not thought
that his cock could get any harder with wanting her, but it did. The blood rushed from his head so fast that
he felt dizzy and his groin ached with need.
"Well, can you see anything wrong?" Her voice was tinged with impatience.
Anything wrong? No,
everything was very right. Very right indeed. So
right that he was just about wetting his breeches like a schoolboy at the sight of her.
He swallowed again. "You are wearing pantaloons. It makes it difficult to see all that I would
like to." Heaven help him if they
were to be interrupted now. If he could not slake just a tiny part of his
desire, he would die of frustration before the day was out. Taking pleasure with his
own hand would never be enough. Not after this. Not ever again. "I
think it would be wise of you to take them off."
She opened her eyes very wide, as if seeing him
in a new light. "Take off
getting harder and harder every day - along with a certain part of his male
anatomy. Being so close to the
delectable Susanna, now without even so much as a chaperone in sight, was sheer
torture.
And teaching her to dance so she could dance with other men? Pure hell.
He'd asked her father for permission to court her, but her father had
refused. Susanna was too young to know
her own mind, the older man had claimed. She had not yet gone into society, and deserved to have a wide field
from which to choose a husband. But would Nigel please teach her to dance in the meantime? She lacked confidence and could do with the
practice.
Besotted, he had agreed, just so he could be
close to her.
And now look at him. He had an
erection so hard he could break stones with it and there was no relief in
sight.
"You're scowling."
"Nonsense," he snapped. "I never scowl."
"And now you are snapping at
me." Her lower lip pouted into a
sulk as she pulled away from him. "I can't help it if I am no good at dancing. I swear there must be something wrong with my
legs. They just don't work like other
people's legs do."
A wicked thought crossed Nigel's mind. A thought so wicked that he should have
dismissed it immediately and punished himself for even
thinking it, but it had already taken root in his mind. "Something wrong with your legs?"
he said slowly, allowing the wickedness to blossom. " Come, let me
take a look at them to make sure they are not the problem."
Without hesitation, she raised her dress just
above her ankles.
Such beautiful ankles she had. Slim and shapely like the rest of her. He
swallowed hard. He had not seen so much
of her since she was a child and ran around tumbling on the lawn getting grass
in her hair.
"Well, do you see anything wrong with
them?"
He dropped to his knees and took one slippered foot in his hands. "Nothing obvious. But I will have to check them more closely to
make sure."
His breathing came short as he ran his fingers lightly, and then again with more confidence, over first one
ankle and then the other. "There is
nothing wrong with either ankle. Maybe
the problem is higher up."
She lifted her dress above her knees and looked
critically down at them. "You think
the problem may be there?"
He ran his hand up her stockinged calf to her knees. He was playing with
fire, he knew it, but he could not make himself stop. He had loved her so well, and for so long,
that he would take any excuse he could find to touch her. "They are slightly knobby," he said
with a shrug, holding back his laughter at the outraged look on her face. "But nothing that
would stop you from dancing like a butterfly."
"Butterflies don't dance. They fly." Her voice was a liquid pout that washed over
him like finely aged whisky.
His hands stilled at her knees. "Maybe the problem is higher
still."
She lifted her skirts a fraction higher, until
he caught a glimpse of the lace on her pantaloons. He'd not thought
that his cock could get any harder with wanting her, but it did. The blood rushed from his head so fast that
he felt dizzy and his groin ached with need.
"Well, can you see anything wrong?" Her voice was tinged with impatience.
Anything wrong? No,
everything was very right. Very right indeed. So
right that he was just about wetting his breeches like a schoolboy at the sight of her.
He swallowed again. "You are wearing pantaloons. It makes it difficult to see all that I would
like to." Heaven help him if they
were to be interrupted now. If he could not slake just a tiny part of his
desire, he would die of frustration before the day was out. Taking pleasure with his
own hand would never be enough. Not after this. Not ever again. "I
think it would be wise of you to take them off."
She opened her eyes very wide, as if seeing him
in a new light. "Take off
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