Seductive Deception

Chapter 17

He'd wanted nothing more than to see Madam Cerise, the anticipation of being together again after their embrace leaving him on edge as he got ready for the Noir et Blanc Ball.

He was attracted to her— succumbing to the full weight and truth of the sentiment he'd fought against for the past few weeks. He forced himself not to dream of impossible things, impossible scenarios between them, reasoning with himself, but he was a hot-blooded man. What man wouldn't find her alluring?

He'd seen the shape of her body and peeked at it when she'd been unawares, entranced by the way she moved, by the soft swell of her breasts in her corset cover— the perfect fit for his hands. The way her hips swelled and tapered down to long and graceful thighs, thighs he fantasized wrapped around him.

He imagined her whispering his name, the sound of it on her lips, swollen from his kisses and flushed from the satisfaction he'd given her, and it was maddening.

He'd broken down at night. Frustrated from fighting it, finding himself alone and hard and desperate for relief.

He envisioned her sprawled on his bed—her long legs tapered from her smooth belly, her head tilted back as a wreath of honeyed hair surrounded her—his Goddess, all long-limbed elegant beauty, otherworldly beauty.

She was inciting him with moans as his lips and tongue traced her body, feasting on her. She let him explore her, worship her as he made his way from her neck to her chest, finding her breasts and lapping the tight pink buds as he stroked them with his fingers. Her hands weaved through his hair as she tugged at it, begging him to touch her. She moaned, and he nibbled her neck, whispering how hard she made him from the sweet sounds she made. She looked up at him with shock...no, awe, most definitely awe; there were plenty of things Aggie was, but fearsome was not one of them. She was adventurous and, free-spirited, vibrant. She would succumb to him, although with considerable persuasion to let herself go—her eyes closing and her head falling back in utter abandon.

He imagined how soft her skin would feel as he ran a hand up her thigh, searching for her most private place and relenting to her request, as satisfied with touching her as she was with being touched. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

She would urge him to give her pleasure, and he would tease her, nipping her lip as he pressed his fingers into her. She was wet. And he made her that way.

A low rumble of satisfaction vibrated from his chest, his movement getting faster.

She implored him, her beautiful gray eyes wide and staring at him with a glazed look of bliss, urging him to give her everything. And he would. He would lay it all out at her feet if she wanted it.

The realization was startling, and he drew back for a moment before his rhythm quickened, his breathing now in heavy pants.

He didn't think he could get any harder, but he imagined how she would look when he took her over the edge—her body tensing and shivering. The sounds she would make, the beautiful flush of her skin, the scent of her arousal—all of it was too much, and he found himself coming, a barely restrained groan flying from his lips as his body tremored. He stayed that way for a while, a sense of satisfaction and relief overcoming him, immediately followed by a frustrating pang of new arousal.

He found release from imagining making love to the infamous, scandalous Madam Cerise. He'd suppressed it. Or at least, he'd tried. Yet, in his weakest moments, he envisioned them making love on his desk, against the hallway wall, on a picnic blanket under their willow, and even in his barouche, especially in his barouche. The fantasies were endless and nearly consumed him.

But couldn't he fantasize about it? Couldn't he allow himself to imagine guiltlessly, as he couldn't stop himself if the truth were to be told.

There were no limitations to fantasy. So, he let his mind wander into forbidden territory, indulging himself because he knew he couldn't be intimate with her, not realistically.

And truth be told, the more she was around, the muddier his thoughts became. The muddier visions of him and Allegra became. And there was something shocking and heart-breaking about that. He'd promised Allegra, his Aggie, he'd find her. And what, then? What if he couldn't admit to himself he was falling in love with Madam Cerise?

"Come with me," he'd said. "Come with me...because you want to."

And she'd told him no.

He stared at the bottle of 'Ushers' on his desk delivered this morning with a red ribbon attached to the top and a small note.

For our continued partnership.

Special instructions state that it should be consumed in tea cups only.

M.S.

He could envision how her mouth kicked up when she wrote the last sentence and how much he enjoyed that half-smile.

And then he reread the word: partnership.

His throat tightened. Was that what they were to one another? He jerked on his cravat, harder than necessary, as he got ready, shooing his valet away despite his protests. Renfick, all refinement, left Morgan's room with his nose in the air and a face that looked like he'd sucked on a lemon.

Despite his cousin's protests that all gentlemen require a valet, he'd sent Renfick away, encouraging him to find other things to do, even if he was met with futile arguments about the man's expectations.

He grimaced as he pulled the shirtsleeve over his arm, the silvery scar gleaming at him in the light. The scar was a consistent reminder, a badge of personal anguish he would wear forever. The ironic truth was that the worst of the injuries, the worst of the scars, weren't even visible.

He took a deep breath, straightened his shirt sleeve, and tugged his jacket on.