she wore just beneath, down.
"Wh-what is in this stuff?" she breathed, faintly.
"I told you, I don't remember."
"Hmmm . . . I suppose it doesn't matter what's in it . . . only how it makes me feel ."
"And how does it make you feel?" he managed, trying to remember why he'd let her have the solution, trying to keep his mind on track, trying to give his scientific brain the chance to anchor him in reality when it was obvious that his body — carnal thing that it was — had already given up on the idea.
"It makes me feel . . . tingly."
"Tingly?"
"Warm." She blushed, coyly. "I . . . I don't know how to describe it, really. I have the strangest sensation down between my thighs . . ."
"I —" Andrew swallowed. "I — see."
"It feels — well, rather wet and warm down there." She touched her fingers to her burgeoning nipple. "And warm here , too."
Andrew felt a violent erection coming on. His pulse was starting to pound, his will fading irretrievably into the gray fog of his thoughts. "I uh, think I'd better get you back to your brother now —"
"Oh, but I don't want to go back to my brother," she said, slipping her other hand into her piled-up hair and with a single flick of her wrist, freeing it from its pins. She tilted her head back, shook it, and sent the thick, shining mass of hair tumbling down around her shoulders, her bosom, her breast. Then she smiled up at him, her silvery-green eyes dark with invitation. "I want you ."
"Lady Celsiana, you are not yourself, you don't know what you're saying . . . what you're doing —"
"Oh yes, I know what I'm saying." She sauntered closer, her tall, slim body no longer stiff, but fluid and silky and feline as she sidled up to him like a cat begging to be stroked. "And I know exactly what I'm doing." She seized his hand and pressed it to the silk of her gown, all that separated his palm, his fingers, from the hard budding nipple just beneath. "Oh, that feels so much better. Will you make the rest of me feel better too, Andrew?" She gave a shy tinkle of laughter. "Will you touch me in all the places that feel so . . . so strange?"
"God help me . . ."
"God help you ?" She laughed, a sound that was low and husky and altogether seductive. "Why, you're not the one who's hot and cold and tingly and warm and — and —"
It was obvious that she couldn't think of the right word. It was even more obvious that she didn't need to, for now her hand was moving shamelessly, sensuously, over the top of her breast and scooping it free of its silken constraints. The nipple was huge. Engorged. Bright, blushing pinky-red like the trim of her gown and hard as the seed of an apple. Andrew stared. Andrew groaned. And now she was rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, looking down at it in fascination, sliding her palm beneath her breast and offering it brazenly to him.
"Would you look at that," she said, with a funny little giggle.
Andrew looked. He couldn't help but look. But oh, if he could only will himself not to touch . . .
"Why is the nipple standing up like that, Andrew?"
"Because it . . . it wants — uh, it needs —"
"Wants and needs what ?"
"Nothing."
"Something?"
He stood frozen, the blanket crushed at his hip in one sweating fist, wondering if he ought to make a run for it before it was too late for both of them. In another minute he was going to have to peel her off him; no, in another second he was going to have to peel her off him, for now she was pressing herself up against him once more, molding her body to his, tilting her head back to look up at him, rubbing her naked breast against the soft, wiry hair of his equally naked chest.
Esmerelda, with a look of canine amusement, got up from the floor, padded across the room, nosed the door open, and left.
Left it ajar.
Oh, God.
And now Celsiana was kicking off one of her slippers, hooking a leg around Andrew's bare calf, and caressing it with her toes.
"Wh-what is in this stuff?" she breathed, faintly.
"I told you, I don't remember."
"Hmmm . . . I suppose it doesn't matter what's in it . . . only how it makes me feel ."
"And how does it make you feel?" he managed, trying to remember why he'd let her have the solution, trying to keep his mind on track, trying to give his scientific brain the chance to anchor him in reality when it was obvious that his body — carnal thing that it was — had already given up on the idea.
"It makes me feel . . . tingly."
"Tingly?"
"Warm." She blushed, coyly. "I . . . I don't know how to describe it, really. I have the strangest sensation down between my thighs . . ."
"I —" Andrew swallowed. "I — see."
"It feels — well, rather wet and warm down there." She touched her fingers to her burgeoning nipple. "And warm here , too."
Andrew felt a violent erection coming on. His pulse was starting to pound, his will fading irretrievably into the gray fog of his thoughts. "I uh, think I'd better get you back to your brother now —"
"Oh, but I don't want to go back to my brother," she said, slipping her other hand into her piled-up hair and with a single flick of her wrist, freeing it from its pins. She tilted her head back, shook it, and sent the thick, shining mass of hair tumbling down around her shoulders, her bosom, her breast. Then she smiled up at him, her silvery-green eyes dark with invitation. "I want you ."
"Lady Celsiana, you are not yourself, you don't know what you're saying . . . what you're doing —"
"Oh yes, I know what I'm saying." She sauntered closer, her tall, slim body no longer stiff, but fluid and silky and feline as she sidled up to him like a cat begging to be stroked. "And I know exactly what I'm doing." She seized his hand and pressed it to the silk of her gown, all that separated his palm, his fingers, from the hard budding nipple just beneath. "Oh, that feels so much better. Will you make the rest of me feel better too, Andrew?" She gave a shy tinkle of laughter. "Will you touch me in all the places that feel so . . . so strange?"
"God help me . . ."
"God help you ?" She laughed, a sound that was low and husky and altogether seductive. "Why, you're not the one who's hot and cold and tingly and warm and — and —"
It was obvious that she couldn't think of the right word. It was even more obvious that she didn't need to, for now her hand was moving shamelessly, sensuously, over the top of her breast and scooping it free of its silken constraints. The nipple was huge. Engorged. Bright, blushing pinky-red like the trim of her gown and hard as the seed of an apple. Andrew stared. Andrew groaned. And now she was rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, looking down at it in fascination, sliding her palm beneath her breast and offering it brazenly to him.
"Would you look at that," she said, with a funny little giggle.
Andrew looked. He couldn't help but look. But oh, if he could only will himself not to touch . . .
"Why is the nipple standing up like that, Andrew?"
"Because it . . . it wants — uh, it needs —"
"Wants and needs what ?"
"Nothing."
"Something?"
He stood frozen, the blanket crushed at his hip in one sweating fist, wondering if he ought to make a run for it before it was too late for both of them. In another minute he was going to have to peel her off him; no, in another second he was going to have to peel her off him, for now she was pressing herself up against him once more, molding her body to his, tilting her head back to look up at him, rubbing her naked breast against the soft, wiry hair of his equally naked chest.
Esmerelda, with a look of canine amusement, got up from the floor, padded across the room, nosed the door open, and left.
Left it ajar.
Oh, God.
And now Celsiana was kicking off one of her slippers, hooking a leg around Andrew's bare calf, and caressing it with her toes.
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