Being Wicked. Lacy Danes

Winston. He said he liked her as the lady he remembered.

      She was someplace in between now.

      She was not the outgoing plaything Oscar wanted, nor was she the proper lady Winston remembered.

      She was simply Grace.

      She could be nothing more than Grace—plain and simple.

      She leaned down and slid her fingertips beneath the edge of her stocking. Sliding the silk down her legs, she let it sit pooled on her ankle. She repeated the same with the other side, then stood back straight. She stood still with her eyes closed, her nipples ached and her sex throbbed.

      “What are you thinking, Grace?” His voice was soft and strong. The air swirled about her. “Do you enjoy displaying yourself for me?”

      She trembled. Her legs shook. She adored his gaze upon her. No longer the innocent girl, she wanted him to ogle her mature, womanly form.

      He circled her. Though she could not see his eyes, his stare caressed her skin, her hair, and her face. All his thoughts and his energy were on her. He looked her over from a very close distance, as if she were a piece of art he appreciated. She inhaled and smelled nothing but him.

      “Answer, Grace.”

      What had he asked her? If she enjoyed displaying herself for him. “A mixture.”

      He laughed. “‘A mixture.’” The two small words held the remains of his laugh. “Indeed. You are unsure who you are, Grace? The perfect lady? The trained plaything? A mixture of boldness and shyness. Your body reactions show your struggle. The way you undress for me and keep your eyes closed. You are shy, Grace. Take down your hair.”

      She lifted her hands to her upswept hair. Her shaking fingers pulled out the first of the many pins. Each tiny piece of metal she pulled, her curly hair loosened.

      She inhaled deeply, simply feeling him. The heat of his body enfolded her…closer…closer as he moved to her while she worked her hair, letting each pin simply fall from her fingertips as she tugged it from her heavy locks.

      In a rush, it tumbled down, washing her shoulders and back in cool silkiness.

      She swallowed as quivers of excitement rippled through her.

      “Open your eyes, Grace.” The smell of port and tobacco infused her.

      She slit her eyes open, her gaze fixed firmly down. His bare feet in view. His fingers slid up her temple and into her hair. The caress was so gentle yet firm, her head gently nuzzled into his palm. The fingers in her hair fisted and he pulled the hair taut. Slowly he tilted her head back. Her gaze studied his face.

      He smiled at her. The blacks of his eyes engulfed the sapphire blue. Winston. Winston would show her…

      Just what Winston would show her, she simply couldn’t fathom.

      6

      Grace

      Winston stared into smoky green eyes and the swirl of emotion—the struggle within herself about the woman she had become. He would help her decipher the struggle. Help her to understand who she was and where she could find fulfillment. He had known her all of her childhood.

      He knew her true self, the playful wit they had shared as youngsters. That was still all there, but it had been turned into sexual energy. He would pull her back. Make her see she didn’t need to use the act of seduction—the way she had with Emma—on him. She could be the woman, the lady, who wished to be proper, who wished to please, as well as the wanton she obviously was instructed, and loved, to be.

      His stomach pinched. She would be his wanton desire. Winston narrowed his eyes. Indeed, he wanted to instruct her to please him the way he enjoyed and she would be easy to instruct. In the depths of her eyes, he could see the same innocent will to please, but she was not the same naïve girl he left. She had grown and now had experiences and desires of her own.

      He tightened the grip in her hair and watched her body relax in a wave. Indeed, she always had pleased him. When they were youngsters, she had shown him hers, and in return he had rewarded her with a mystery she had asked him about. He blew out a breath through his nose. He couldn’t remember the name of the book. All he remembered was the look of joy on her face when he handed the bound pages to her.

      He had no doubt she would please him. “Grace, will you allow me to touch you the way I please?”

      Grace’s eyes lit up, the smoke of the green sparked to embers of a slow-burning fire. “Indeed.” A shiver shook her body and the fire seeped through her.

      Winston’s breath caught. Grace’s passions astounded him, her ability to give herself so quickly to him…. Every fine hair on the back of his neck rose in arousal. “Very good, Grace.”

      He let his grip of her hair loose. The long, silky locks caressed his skin as he weeded his fingers free of her curls. Calmly he stepped to the side of her, arousal pushing his longing to smell all of her, to taste her, to an undeniable pitch.

      She turned her head in his direction, her eyes following him as he walked toward the bed. “Winston?”

      “Yes, Grace?” He stared at the bed. Where would he begin this…this start of what would become them?

      “When did you return from India, and why did you not contact my brother or me?”

      India. She would love the heat there. The cold and damp of England had always given her the shivers. He wasn’t too pleased with the rainy season here himself. “I returned a fortnight past.” He glanced at her. The latter part of her question, he would not answer. Not now. How could he describe to her that he had not contacted her because his priority when he returned was to find a woman in England that was all he wished—the wanton he could train, the lady he could cherish. He never imagined Grace might fit his needs.

      She bit her lip in the same fashion she had all the years he had known her. Her nervous habit that said she also had questions. Questions he would have plenty of time to answer, and would over time.

      At this moment, he would instruct her, make her quiver and shake with need for him, and him alone.

      “Grace, come. Sit on the edge of the bed.” He walked to the bed, a semireplica of the ones used in Indian pleasures.

      He liked the carved elephants instead of simple metal rings found on the ones in most of the pleasure temples there. The warm wood carvings made the room look more elegant and less punishmentlike. He never punished. There was nothing like hearing a woman moan—the rush of breath as she spent was what he enjoyed more than anything.

      The air about him heated and the scent of Grace tightened his lungs….

      Grace.

      Grace moaning.

      His cock tingled and the skin tightened over the flesh beneath the cloth of his trousers.

      He glanced over his shoulder at her. She stood an arm’s breadth from him, auburn hair down to the small of her back and a mix of desire and fear in her eyes. So beautiful was the contradiction of Grace.

      Her fear, no matter what fear it was, would only fuel her spend. Indeed. He would have Grace spending within moments of touching her.

      Grace stepped in between him and the bed, then gingerly sat on the edge. She tilted her head up and stared at him waiting…expectant of a futter.

      He kneeled down next to her. A quick diddle was not what he enjoyed. Teasing, holding off until the last moment was what brought him thrills.

      His fingertips gently grazed down the outsides of her legs. Grace’s muscles tensed beneath his fingers’ touch. Reaching the stockings, slouched at her ankles, he lifted her left leg and pulled her green slipper from her foot.

      He grinned.

      Her feet were anything but dainty. In all the years he had known Grace, he had never looked at her slippers. With every tick of the clock,