Free Hot and Steamy by Jean Rabe Page A

it’s not your job to keep your husband entertained.” Caught up in their droll banter, the ill-considered intimation of spousehood tripped from his tongue before he could stop it. Were he a man prone to blushing, he might have beamed a torrid crimson. As it was, he fumbled at his pocket to find a new cartridge to reload into the breech of his cane.
    â€œKiss me.” Lady Trystan leaned close to him, her voice husky in his ear. She touched his shoulder.
    â€œGod save you. You’re a complete romantic. People like me aren’t meant to be with people like you. It isn’t . . . proper. Our roles . . .”
    â€œ Their roles be damned. Our role is to love. There’s not enough of it in our world, so when we find it, no matter how proper society finds it, we must embrace it.”
    Winston kissed her tenderly.
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    Mr. St. Ives’ private car featured a bench of crimson velvet on which he sat reading a book and smoking a briar pipe. Music poured out of a small contraption with a gleaming carapace. At Winston’s entry, St. Ives leaned over to shut off the electro-transmitter device.
    â€œYour agent failed.”
    â€œAn agent of an agent? Surely I have no idea what you’re talking about,” St. Ives said. “I will say this: the pursuit won’t cease. Lady Trystan, as she calls herself, is still her father’s daughter. As such, ever the most visible pawn to move.”
    â€œAnd if she should disappear?”
    â€œIt is a complicated world we live in. However, a pawn out of play is of no concern to me. Or my employer.”
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    Lady Trystan carried herself with the bearing of a woman prone to athletics. With a seductive modesty, her gown was snug enough to reveal every curve of her voluptuous breasts and fitted to show off the flatness of her belly, without exposing any skin. In stark contrast to Winston’s mannered fastidiousness, her eyes sparkled with an arcane fire, a vivaciousness that threatened to consume him. The curious curl of her lips added a certain coquettishness to her manner, a coy edge compounded in her posture. Something about her scent captivated him, rushed straight to his head like a fog settling on his brain. No one should radiate so much sexual energy simply by sitting down.
    â€œI have an acquaintance in Indianapolis I was due to call upon after delivering you to your father,” Winston said.
    â€œI do so wish the men in my world would quit discussing me as if I were a sack of potatoes being shipped somewhere.”
    â€œAfter some careful consideration, a clear mind would determine that a fortnight of acquaintance is no basis for any claim of intimacy.”
    â€œYou’re quite circumspect. I imagine it takes you hours to convey the cleverest of anecdotes.” Lady Trystan leaned closer, running her fingertips along his hand. He jumped, snatching his hand back as if bitten. She smiled. “Do you wish me to go with you?”
    â€œYou delight in vexing me.”
    â€œI delight in being me. Perhaps you are too easily vexed. Led by your nose from passion to passion, spending it recklessly on any passing fancy.”
    Lord have mercy, the way that woman stared at him, Winston thought. His own eyes drank her in. Large, brown pupils danced in a pool that reflected only her. He attempted not to conspicuously gaze on the curve of her body, her dress barely contained. His mouth grew dry, his tongue a swollen useless thing that choked back any words his brain managed to string together. He couldn’t imagine what to say, not to a woman like that. All woman—confident, unapologetically sexual, and with a devouring seductiveness. Someone who knew the power of her sex and wielded it like an expert martial artist. Winston’s hands labored to remain fixed on his cane handle. Instead, he consulted his pocket watch, and then blew on its pewter finish to polish it with a handkerchief, avoiding the power of her gaze. “I