Free If Love Were Enough by Suzanne Quill

you who would watch. It would be I who would make love to you.”
    Brandon struggled to keep his mouth from falling open. He could not touch her? She would make love to him? What folly was this? This woman of passion, whom he had watched the night before, would not let him pleasure her but would herself pleasure him?
    “Madam,” Brandon ran his hand through his hair again, “I do not see how that would bring pleasure to you at all.”
    “It would be my wish, my lord. It would be my rule. And it would be in place until I chose to change it. It would be your promise and you must choose to abide by it no matter what your physical or emotional urges might require.”
    “And, if I should take this pledge and refrain from touching you, what should happen then?”
    “Because I am lonely, my lord, I would do for you what I would do for my husband. I would pleasure myself in front of you. Then I would pleasure you. But after that, you must leave. And, never would you raise a hand to touch me, or set your lips to mine.”
    Brandon turned to walk a distance from her. Now both hands were in his hair. What was this the widow asked of him? What kind of marriage had fate dealt her that she would not let someone touch and pleasure her? Could he restrain himself if he were to become even more aroused than he was at the window the prior evening? Could he hope she would change her mind when the two of them were in the throes of sexual ecstasy?
    He turned back to her.
    “I’ll take your bargain, my lady.”
    “You will be disappointed, Lord Brookfield, if you think my demands will change in midstream. I promise you, they will not. And you will be bound to them or permanently break your trust with me.”
    “I will not break my promise tonight no matter the pain or torment it will cause me. I wish to build our trust. Already there is something that grows between us. I refuse to forfeit the possibility of something more due to my lack of control. There must be a reason both of us have been thrown together when we are suffering such similar losses. I will take your vow and make it my own.”
    Priscilla did not hide the astonishment on her face. Had she hoped to fend him off by such a demand? When would she decide it was safe to relent? “Sit, my lord, in the chair before the fire. Take off your jacket and waistcoat. Be comfortable. Give me a moment to compose myself. I was not prepared for a night such as this.”
    Brandon shed his jacket and waistcoat and made himself comfortable in the velvet wing chair. His gaze lit upon the fire, its warmth and light hypnotizing him while his mind wandered through thoughts of what might happen next.
    He had not long to wait.
    Priscilla came to stand with her back to the fire, the rose silk robe cast in a deeper hue from the flames. She still held the brush in her hand and she drew it through the length of her hair over her shoulder. Down in strokes over her breast as her back was warmed by the flame. The brush traced the rise of her breast, the indentation of her waist then stopped just above her mons.
    Again she stroked her tresses. And Brandon watched the course of the journey from beginning to end. He thought about the feel of that silky, shiny hair that he could not touch, its fire-reddened color and the heat it was gaining from the flames and the friction of the brush.
    Priscilla turned toward the flames while she slid the silk robe down her arms until it nestled within the crook of her elbows then tossed her tresses over the nakedness of her back. With subtle gyrations she swayed the locks back and forth over her skin, the waves and curls caressing the indentations of her shoulder blades and the small of her back.
    Brandon’s body was as hard as the marble surrounding the fire and as hot as the bricks within it, but he did not move nor speak.
    Priscilla laid the brush upon the mantel then placed her hands at the nape of her neck. With a slow smooth movement, she slid her arms under her hair