Free Powder of Love (I) by Summer Devon

that’s very bad, isn’t it,” she said with only a hint of a question in her voice.
    He gave the tiniest nod, eyes still shut.
    “Do you think perhaps it would help if I laid a hand on your forehead?” The words were out before she could stop them. But she recalled how she would have liked for someone to run soothing fingers over her when she was under the influence of the chemical. It might have helped ease the ache she’d felt. Particularly if it had been his strong hands soothing her, erasing that restlessness somehow.
    He froze, and she could tell he even held his breath. “No.” She could barely hear him. “It wouldn’t be enough of a touch. I want all of you.”
    He opened his eyes and glared at her, once again blazingly belligerent and angry. “I would rub and taste every last inch of your skin. I would commit the ultimate act again and again, and I wouldn’t stop until I was satisfied. But this hunger is so huge, I might never be sated.” He licked his lips. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
    The naked back writhing in her garden at night, flexing and pushing. Only it would be this man and her. Yes, she understood. She moved toward the door. “I was quite wrong to suggest touching you. My turn to apologize, and I’ll leave now. Do ring if you need anything. Beels will be at your disposal.” She took the key from the lock. “I’ll check on you in an hour or so.”
    “I wouldn’t object if you locked me in.” He sounded almost calm for the first time since she’d reentered the room. “But I pray it is not necessary.”
    “Pray?” She took a step closer to him.
    He raised a shaking hand, fingers bent as if he wanted to grab at her. He seemed surprised by his outstretched fingers, and he frowned at them. “Please. Miss Ambermere,” he whispered. “Lock the door.”
    “One hour,” she said. And she was surprised by her hope to find him still caught in the fever, though to a lessened degree, perhaps. If he couldn’t stop himself, if she had to comfort him—he was her guest, after all—well, they might touch and perhaps even kiss. Surely it would harm no one if they kissed.
    But then his voice, harsh and full of need, echoed in her mind, and she knew she fooled herself that they’d only indulge in a few light kisses. They would fall on each other like starving animals. He, at least, had the powder as an excuse for his hunger.
    She walked from the room without allowing herself to look back.

Chapter Four

    Rosalie closed the door behind her. She absently fingered the shank and rough head of the key, then locked the door, knowing that wouldn’t accomplish as much as Mr. Reed had hoped, because she’d still be able to get in and was entirely too aware of that fact.
    An hour. She must distract herself from the weight of the key in her pocket. The dark promises behind all those words he’d uttered. They should have frightened her, and they did, but something dark deep in her core thrilled to his voice and what he had said.
    She reminded herself there was no powder in her system, but still she couldn’t stop the shivers of longing that twisted her belly. She rubbed her arms, but that brought no relief, for she imagined his strong fingers on her.
    She forced her steps from the library and walked to the parlor, where the evening mail delivery sat on a silver tray. As she slit envelopes and tossed them aside, she wondered what he’d be doing in that room alone. Pacing?
    She paused for a moment, recalling some of Johnny’s words of how a frustrated man could take the unhealthy action of easing the tension. Amazing how many details she recalled of his conversations. Especially because of the endless number of times she had told him and herself she was not listening to his wretched talk of bodies.
    Perhaps that was what Mr. Reed did behind the closed door. He’d open his fly, remove his stiffened organ—she had seen it was engorged under the dull tweed of his trousers. He’d use his hands or