Free A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) by Jillian Stone

engaged throughout the lift. If I don’t press my arabesque leg against your hold, I’ll fold in half and lose all stability.” She cleared her throat and swallowed. “Let me feel your hands.”
    “Like this?” His hand slipped under her thigh and his grip tightened.
    She flexed her thigh against his hold. “Do you feel me answer you?” The words were spoken in a raspy voice, one she didn’t recognize as her own.
    “Mm-hmm.” His breath brushed against the soft hairs of her temple.
    Her heart fluttered inside her chest. “Élevé.”
    He lifted on counts one and two. Dipped her on three and four. Cate swept her leg into passé position. He brought her upright on five, six, and returned her to earth—seven, eight.
    “ Sans volume, monseiur —quietly.” He lowered her gently onto her pointe leg. Back on the ground, she turned to him. “You are better at this than I imagined.”
    She never knew men could grin with their eyes. At least, this one did.
    “All right then, something more challenging. Nothing too high—yet.” Cate tilted her head. “Perhaps you could lift me onto your shoulder?” Within one or two tries, Finn lifted her with ease—and he was both powerful andgraceful. He lowered her gently to earth. Cate completed the lift with an arabesque. Standing in his arms, she arched back. “Bravo, Finn.”
    As a student, she had developed crushes on one or two male dancers. All that touching in places no man was allowed. And there was something deliciously wicked about engaging in such an intimacy with a man who was not a dancer. A year had passed and still the heat of her attraction to him shook her to the core. She had never been held by a dancer who moved her like this. She had trembled when his hand moved up the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.
    Without a word, he lifted her again. “If I remember correctly, your partner held you like this.” He pressed her against his body and lowered her slowly.
    The delicate, sensuous notes of Debussy accompanied a brief nuzzle of his nose to her bodice. A warm exhale drifted across the curve of her breast, and the rough stubble of his chin brushed the hollow of her throat.
    Her toe shoes dangled inches off the ground.
    Face-to-face, his half-lidded scorching gaze lowered to her mouth. The memory of his words in Barcelona taunted her. Say yes, Cate, say yes. Her body strained against the corset of her costume, and her stomach muscles trembled. The tingle was back. The one that aroused nipples, clenched her womb, and curled her toes.
    Descending an inch at a time, her thigh pressed against his lower anatomy. A strong shiver racked his body, causing him to drop her with a thud. “Bollocks.” His apology was worse, barely more than a harsh whisper. “Sorry.”
    She could not help but notice the bulge. “Male dancers wear a dancer’s belt.”
    “A what?”
    “I have no idea why I blurted that out.” Cate shookher head and laughed uncomfortably. “It’s a kind of . . . codpiece to protect your privates.”
    A smile crept over his face. “Now, why would I—?”
    “This is not about r-rubbing,” she stammered, as a rush of heat singed her cheeks. “I could kick you by accident.”
    “Yes, I’ve experienced those toe slippers firsthand—painful to the shinbones, as well as a man’s testicles, I imagine.”
    She really must change the subject. “The lifts look simple and elegant, almost weightless. But as you can see, they require hours of practice.”
    He exhaled a long loud breath. “I was better at the bolero.”
    She tilted her head. “Yes, I believe you were.” She turned to the pianist. “Something by Strauss, Mr. Skym—adagio, please.” She returned to Finn with a blush of heat to her cheeks.
    “Like the waltz, the bolero is danced in three-quarter time.” Finn used a mock instructor’s voice. Drawing her to him, they practiced the basic pattern of the dance.
    She danced a circle—more of a strut—around him. “Quick,