“It’s all right.” Lucien’s voice was low and soothing and much closer.
She made herself remember Finch. “It is not all right, he . . .”
“I meant you can turn around now.”
Oh. She swallowed and faced him.
Not dressed. Not entirely.
He wore a robe of dark silk, belted at the waist, exposing a broad golden V of chest. The damp fabric clung to his belly, the muscles and bones of his thighs, before falling in folds to his calves. His feet were bare. Big, masculine feet, almost as much a revelation as the rest of him. Strong arches. Hairy toes. So different from hers.
She felt another pang like hunger and jerked her gaze back up to his face.
He watched her, his green eyes hot, amused, aware.
“Aimée,” he murmured. A whisper of amusement, of frustration, of desire. “What are you doing here?”
She barely remembered. She felt damp. Feverish. The heat of his body, the warmth of his breath, reached out to her. “I needed to speak with you. Alone.”
She knew very well that she should move away.
She was equally certain he would do nothing to stop her.
But she might never have another opportunity to indulge her curiosity. Her desire. She stood her ground, motionless as a rabbit when the dogs were in sight, her heart beating, beating, beating.
“Then you must tell me,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice and in his eyes, “how I can be of service to you.”
Despite herself, she felt her lips curve. She wanted this, to revel in this moment without fear or shame. She wanted him.
She closed her eyes to the extreme foolishness of what she was doing and simply breathed him in, the scent of his soap, the flavor of his skin, as if she could store up enough sensations to last her for a lifetime.
His fingers stroked the hair by her temple, a tiny, tugging pleasure. His hand cupped her cheek. With his thumb, he traced the shape of her smile, rubbing lightly on her lower lip. Languor invaded her limbs, weighted her eyelids.
She was playing with fire. Inside, she was melting.
She would stop him. In a minute. Not yet.
She opened her mouth, tasting the rough, salty pad of his thumb.
He inhaled sharply.
The door at her back opened with a flood of cool air.
“Cobs. I knew I should have knocked,” a male voice proclaimed in disgust.
Aimée froze.
Lucien stepped back unhurriedly, adjusting the front of his robe. “It’s all right, Martin. You can come back later,” he said over her head.
He was sending his servant away.
For a moment she was glad.
She wanted Lucien to herself, wanted privacy and freedom to savor and explore. To slide her fingers under the silk of his robe. To touch his warm, hair-roughened chest. To gather up memories she could take out and treasure in the nights and years to come, like flowers pressed in the pages of a book.
Only for a moment, before her brain, which had turned to mush as a result of all the lovely melty things going on inside her, reasserted itself and the reality of their situation rushed in.
Finch. She had to think of Finch.