Free To Have and to Hold by Patricia Gaffney

wouldn't touch. When he stopped before her, she stiffened, realizing the truth. Her instantaneous understanding of what was going to happen helped him get over a bizarre urge to embrace her and hold her close, give her comfort. Comforting Mrs. Wade didn't figure in his plans.
    Touching her did. He imagined caressing her breasts, holding them through her dress right now, with no preliminaries. Would she jerk away in fright? No. Oh, no, she would close her eyes and bear it, let him handle her as intimately as he liked, a martyr to the inevitable. There might be nothing he could do to her that she wouldn't bear. The thought excited him. Depressed him.
    He lifted his hand to run his fingers along the line of her jaw. Fine white skin, virginal skin, smooth as warm glass. What had Wade done to her? The question was starting to obsess him. Wade the sodomite, Wade the flagellant. He pressed lightly against her opposite cheek, making her turn her head and look at him. Her eyes were downcast, and martyrdom had never been one of his aphrodisiacs. Leaning in, he ran his tongue along the prickly line of her lashes. She had stopped breathing. She waited for him to do the next thing, take the next conscienceless liberty with her body. Very well, he would. He gently inserted the tip of his middle finger between her lips. Her mouth moistened it, and he wet her lips with his finger, smoothing it back and forth, going back inside for more wetness when her lips went dry. He thought she might be trembling, and brought his other hand to the back of her neck to see. Yes. Soft, subtle quivers coursing through her, like a light breeze rustling the leaves of a small, slight tree. Her neck was so thin, so fragile. Had he ever had a woman more vulnerable than this one? His head was swimming.
    He put his hands flat on her chest, feeling her heart thud, thud, as she drew a choking breath. She was going to the stake like St. Joan, brave and above it all. He slid one hand to her face, spreading her lips to the sides a little with his thumb and forefinger, parting them. She made a soft sound, helpless. He put his open mouth on hers, breathing on her, and tasted inside her lips with his tongue, circling them slowly.
    Heat jerked through him, rough and willful, out of control. He stopped tonguing her, stood perfectly still, his mouth on hers but not moving.
    Seconds passed. Control returned, but he was wary. A lesson had been learned. The seducer could be seduced.
    Ruthless now, he used his teeth, biting her full lower lip until she whimpered, then soothed her with his slow, hot tongue. A taste of salt startled him. Blood? Impossible. He pulled back, and saw the long, lone tearstain on her pink cheek.
    A good way to end this, tears, because he hadn't intended it to go this far. Not yet. And if they stood in this doorway much longer, the next step would be quite, quite inevitable. But what he wanted wasn't a fast, hot fuck in the housekeeper's narrow bed. What he wanted ... he had no words for it yet. Possession. Appropriation. Whatever it was, it called for more finesse than this backstairs grope. He might not deserve more—although he didn't believe that—but she did. Rachel Crenshaw did.
    He leaned in toward her and caressed her lips with his, just a soft, farewell brash. Her breath rippling over his skin excited him, invited him to linger, but he didn't. He could always master himself when he chose to, and he chose to now. But what was she thinking? Had he moved her at all? No way to tell; she kept her eyes down, and the pitiful little tear could mean anything.
    "Have dinner with me tonight, Mrs. Wade. Since we've missed our morning meeting." Not quite a command, but by no means a question. He stepped away so that they weren't touching, so she could entertain the illusion, if she wished, that she had a choice. "Six o'clock, you recall. I'll expect you, shaUI?"
    He was a patient man; he could wait forever. It seemed that long before she realized there