“I’m afraid you haven’t a choice.” He flexed one large hand, as though it ached him. “Shall I tell you what I would do if I could touch you?”

The words were soft and dark and all irresistible temptation. “Yes, please.”

“I would lift them from that prison in which you keep them, and I would worship them in the manner they deserve.”

Oh, my. Her hands froze, rendered unusable by his beautiful, liquid voice.

“And then, when they’d forgotten how it felt to be caged by silk and bone, I would teach you about kissing, just as you asked.” Her lips parted, and she met his gaze, filled with dark promise. “But not on your mouth—on your beautiful br**sts. On the soft pale skin of them, on the places that have never seen light, that have never felt a man’s touch. You would learn about the tongue, my little scientist . . . there on those pretty, aching tips.”

The image he painted was graphic and groundbreaking, and she was instantly entranced by the idea of his tongue on her—too entranced to be embarrassed, her hands following his words, teasing, touching, and for a moment she could almost believe it was him touching her. Making her ache. She sighed, and he shifted, straightening, but coming no closer, damn him.

“Would you like me to tell you where else I would touch you?”

“Yes, please.” The words were a whisper.

“So polite.” He leaned forward. “There’s no place for politeness here, my bespectacled beauty. Here, you ask and I give. You offer and I take. No please. No thank you.”

She waited for him to continue, every inch of her humming with excitement, with anticipation.

“Hook one leg over the arm of that chair.” Her eyes went wide at the order. She’d never in her life sat in such a way. She hesitated. He pressed on. “You asked.”

So she had. She moved, opening to him, her thighs widening, the cool air of the room rushing through the slit in her pantalettes. Her cheeks burned and she moved her hands to block his view.

He was watching them, and he made a low sound of approval. “That’s where my hands would be as well. Can you feel why? Can you feel the heat? The temptation?”

Her eyes were closed now. She couldn’t look at him. But she nodded.

“Of course you can . . . I can almost feel it myself.” The words were hypnotic, all temptation, soft and lyric and wonderful. “And tell me, my little anatomist, have you explored that particular location, before?”

Her cheeks burned.

“Don’t start lying now, Pippa. We’ve come so far.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ve explored it before.” The confession was barely sound, but he heard it. When he groaned, she opened her eyes to find him pressed back against the desk once more. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

He shook his head, his hand rising to his mouth once more, stroking across firm lips. “Only in that you made me burn with jealousy.”

Her brows furrowed. “Of whom?”

“Of you, lovely.” His grey gaze flickered to the place she hid from him. “Of your perfect hands. Tell me what you found.”

She couldn’t. While she might know the clinical words for all the things she had touched and discovered, she could not speak them to him. She shook her head. “I cannot.”

“Did you find pleasure?”

She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together.

“Did you?” he whispered, the sound loud as a gunshot in this dark, wicked room.

She shook her head. Once, so small it was barely a movement.

He exhaled, the sound long and lush in the room, as though he’d been holding his breath . . . and he moved. “What a tragedy.”

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of him—of trouser against carpet as he crawled toward her, eyes narrow and filled with wicked, wonderful promise.

He was coming for her. Predator stalking prey.

And she could not wait to be caught.

She exhaled, the breath coming out on a low, shaking sigh that could have become a moan if she weren’t careful and, God help her, she moved her hands, opening to his touch and sight, ready to thank God and Lucifer and anyone else who might have had a hand in this moment for finally, finally bringing him to her.

Except, he didn’t touch her.

“Shall I show you how to find it, lovely?” he asked, and she could have sworn she felt his breath against her hands, hot and tempting. “Where to find it?”

She’d never know where the courage came from—how she pushed past the embarrassment and the shame that should have been there. “Please,” she fairly begged, and he did, in soft, devastating words.

She did as he told her, parting folds of fabric, then folds of a more secret kind, following his whispered instructions, answering his wicked questions.

“So pretty and pink . . . does it feel good, love?”

She whimpered her reply.

“Of course it does. I can smell the pleasure on you . . . sweet and soft and very very wet.” The words brought sensation, a thundering pleasure that she’d never felt before, not even in the dark nights when she’d quietly explored on her own.

“Oh, Pippa . . .” he whispered, turning his head, breathing against the curve of her knee, but not touching—never touching. He was destroying her. “If I were there . . . if my fingers were yours, I would spread you wide and show you how much more pleasurable it can be when the experience is shared. I would use my mouth to give you your second lesson in kissing . . . I would teach you everything I know about the act.”