curves. Your hair is undone and the curls tease your nipples into tight buds as you walk toward me.” His gaze flickered over her hair and settled on her lips. He licked his own. “You open your mouth without hesitation when I kiss you and our tongues touch and learn each other anew every night. I touch your neck, feel your pulse beat and speed up when I trail my fingers down to your bosom.”
She felt her pulse race, true to his words. His eyes were following the path he described and she felt it as much as if he were actually touching her. Fingers of fire threaded down her throat and she felt her nipples harden to the point of aching. Wetness pooled between her legs and she shifted in her seat.
Mr. Grant raised his eyes to hers again, trapping her with the blatant lust she saw in them. “I kissed you, Nymph, the day you came to my library. I put my tongue in your mouth, and I dream of doing it again and again and again and doing so much more than that. That is what amuses me.”
Sara’s breath came in short pants. Her body ached to be touched—for his touch, she knew. How had he done this to her with mere words? The temptation of him was tantalizing.
As she watched, he looked down at the plate of food between them and selected a cake, popping it into his mouth. When he looked back at her, the lust she had seen had been banished, replaced with an innocuous expression. Had it merely been her imagination moments before? Had he done this to be cruel to her? Or was this all a part of his challenge, of him believing her incapable of adventure, of being incapable of answering his mockery?
She found her voice. “Well,” Sara said, pursing her lips. “You are proving to be unpleasant again.”
He cocked a brow, one side of his mouth curling up. “Am I? I suppose I could be doing worse. This is the most you have ever spoken to me without retreating into one of your silences. That must count for something.”
“Why are you like this?” she asked. “Why do you insist on provoking me?”
“Why do you not fight back?”
Sara was saved from answering by the wine arriving. She took a quick sip, surprised at how easily it went down. The ants were not present, despite the taxing conversation. Odd.
Mr. Grant took a pasty and pushed the plate toward her. “Have something to eat.”
Sara shook her head. “I have no wish to eat.”
“Yet you keep looking at it. Take something.”
“I cannot eat your food. It would be unmannerly.”
He smiled. “I filled my plate with both of us in mind. I cannot eat all this on my own.” He took a big bite of his pasty, arching his eyebrows as he chewed. Juices ran down his chin and he wiped them away with his napkin. He extended his arm, offering her his pasty.
Sara stared at him, watching his eyes turn from chilly pools to hot springs once more. This time she knew it was not her imagination. She knew what he wanted her to do, but she couldn’t do it. Not like that.
When she didn’t accommodate him, disappointment flickered in his eyes and he pulled away, taking another bite. He chewed slowly, watching her closely as she sipped her wine. Swallowing his food, he chased it down with wine. He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Why do you dislike taking what you want?” He asked his question in a soft, dark voice. It was a distinct shift from his previous, more playful tone.
“Excuse me? I don’t understand what you mean.” The ants began to slowly march in her throat. She cleared her throat, feeling them fall away and disappear.
“I think you understand exactly what I mean,” he replied. He picked up a pasty and put it into her hand. “You want to have a pasty; I can see it in your eyes and hear it from your stomach. There is nothing wrong with taking what you want.”
“That is the definition of greed, sir,” Sara replied quietly, the pasty warming her hand and teasing her nostrils.
“To eat when you are hungry is greed?”
“To desire more when you have already been
She felt her pulse race, true to his words. His eyes were following the path he described and she felt it as much as if he were actually touching her. Fingers of fire threaded down her throat and she felt her nipples harden to the point of aching. Wetness pooled between her legs and she shifted in her seat.
Mr. Grant raised his eyes to hers again, trapping her with the blatant lust she saw in them. “I kissed you, Nymph, the day you came to my library. I put my tongue in your mouth, and I dream of doing it again and again and again and doing so much more than that. That is what amuses me.”
Sara’s breath came in short pants. Her body ached to be touched—for his touch, she knew. How had he done this to her with mere words? The temptation of him was tantalizing.
As she watched, he looked down at the plate of food between them and selected a cake, popping it into his mouth. When he looked back at her, the lust she had seen had been banished, replaced with an innocuous expression. Had it merely been her imagination moments before? Had he done this to be cruel to her? Or was this all a part of his challenge, of him believing her incapable of adventure, of being incapable of answering his mockery?
She found her voice. “Well,” Sara said, pursing her lips. “You are proving to be unpleasant again.”
He cocked a brow, one side of his mouth curling up. “Am I? I suppose I could be doing worse. This is the most you have ever spoken to me without retreating into one of your silences. That must count for something.”
“Why are you like this?” she asked. “Why do you insist on provoking me?”
“Why do you not fight back?”
Sara was saved from answering by the wine arriving. She took a quick sip, surprised at how easily it went down. The ants were not present, despite the taxing conversation. Odd.
Mr. Grant took a pasty and pushed the plate toward her. “Have something to eat.”
Sara shook her head. “I have no wish to eat.”
“Yet you keep looking at it. Take something.”
“I cannot eat your food. It would be unmannerly.”
He smiled. “I filled my plate with both of us in mind. I cannot eat all this on my own.” He took a big bite of his pasty, arching his eyebrows as he chewed. Juices ran down his chin and he wiped them away with his napkin. He extended his arm, offering her his pasty.
Sara stared at him, watching his eyes turn from chilly pools to hot springs once more. This time she knew it was not her imagination. She knew what he wanted her to do, but she couldn’t do it. Not like that.
When she didn’t accommodate him, disappointment flickered in his eyes and he pulled away, taking another bite. He chewed slowly, watching her closely as she sipped her wine. Swallowing his food, he chased it down with wine. He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Why do you dislike taking what you want?” He asked his question in a soft, dark voice. It was a distinct shift from his previous, more playful tone.
“Excuse me? I don’t understand what you mean.” The ants began to slowly march in her throat. She cleared her throat, feeling them fall away and disappear.
“I think you understand exactly what I mean,” he replied. He picked up a pasty and put it into her hand. “You want to have a pasty; I can see it in your eyes and hear it from your stomach. There is nothing wrong with taking what you want.”
“That is the definition of greed, sir,” Sara replied quietly, the pasty warming her hand and teasing her nostrils.
“To eat when you are hungry is greed?”
“To desire more when you have already been
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