“May I have my cello again?” Her voice broke his trance.
He handed it back.
She spread her legs wider and he almost lunged forward and called for the recital to be postponed, but instead he lowered himself slowly into the couch as she fussed with her instrument, positioning it correctly.
Then she looked at him rather shyly. “I’ve never played for anyone like this before.”
“I should damn well hope not!”
Her smile broadened. “What would you like me to play?”
“Something brief.” He couldn’t stop looking at the way that big instrument balanced between her open legs. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
Edie always seemed transformed when she played. But this was a different sort of transformation: while it was about the music, it was also about him. She kept peeking from under her lashes, even as she played some sort of rippling thing that made her fingers dart among the strings.
Listening, Gowan had an idea. He had discarded his coat and neck cloth while in his study; now he stood up and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Her eyes grew a bit wider, but she continued to play, even when he pulled his shirt over his head. She made an error when he bent over to pull off one boot. He had catalogued the way a cascade of notes fell down a scale, and one of Edie’s struck a sour note.
He had a distinct impression that his wife liked his muscles. So he bent over again, slower this time, twisting like some sort of Roman statue to pull off his other boot and roll down his stocking. She was watching . . . the tempo of her piece was not allegro any longer.
The room was half in shadow now, as some of the candles were burning low and the last midsummer daylight was gone for another night. He put his hands on his waistband.
Her bow lifted, and the last note was cut short. In the silence, he became aware of the patter of raindrops against the windows.
“Dear me,” he said, unbuttoning the top button of his breeches, and meeting Edie’s eyes. “That note should have lasted longer, shouldn’t it?”
“How did you know that?” She looked surprised, but her eyes drifted back to his hands. He undid another button and shoved his breeches down a little, showing off his rippled abdomen.
“It’s the piece you played with your father.” The notes were stored in his mind, like everything else.
“You remember the music that closely after having heard it only once?”
He had to work his breeches around that part of him that was barely fitting in his smalls as it was. So he dropped his smalls along with his breeches. It was oddly liberating to stand naked in front of his wife. No servants. Just the two of them.
Edie rose and pushed the cello in his direction. He laid it in its case. She turned to the mirror and began pulling pins from her hair. He came up from behind and ran his hands around her, cupping her breasts.
That luscious hair of hers came tumbling down, down over his arms. “God, you have lovely hair,” he whispered.
She dropped the pins. There was a faint tinkle as they scattered over the ancient wood floor. But then her hands came warm over his and she leaned back and looked up at him. “I’ve thought of cutting it a few times.”
“Never cut it,” he said. “Promise me, Edie.”
She hesitated, and her brows drew together. “What if I want to cut it?”
He pulled her tighter against him. He couldn’t own her. She owned herself. He couldn’t . . . “Forget I said that.” He bent his head and licked her cheek, a blatant, sexual caress. His fingers spread across her breasts. “May I take you to bed, Madam Wife?”
She smiled, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Yes, please.”
As long as she said yes at the right moments . . .
In the length of their short marriage, they had made love four times. Gowan lay Edie on her back, thinking about this, the fifth time. It had to be different.
Better.
She began wiggling right away, though, batting his hands away. “I want my champagne,” she announced. And then, when she was upright again and holding another glass, she looked at him through those thick lashes of hers and said, “I’d like you to lie down.”
“What?”
She pointed. “On the bed. On your back. You’re my husband, so . . .”
Edie would have laughed at the expression on his face, except this was too serious. She sipped her champagne again, hoping that Layla was right. It made her head swirl, which had to be good. Just let go, she told herself again. Let go.
But first . . . For a moment she thought Gowan wouldn’t do it. He was the most dominant man she’d ever met in her life, after all. But then he lay on his back, except that his face turned blank.
She crawled up beside him and pressed a kiss on his lips. “I don’t like your expression,” she informed him. Yes, the champagne was definitely helpful.
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you have nothing in your eyes. Are you certain that you don’t want champagne? It’s quite good.”
His eyes narrowed. “No.” The word came out with a wolfish snap, and made her remember that his drunken parents complicated the whole question for him.
“All right,” she said, putting her own glass away. “Now I’m going to learn what pleasures you.”
“What pleasures me?” He rose up on his elbows, staring at her incredulously. “It all pleasures me. If you let me touch you, I’m pretty damned near in heaven.”
Edie could almost wish she hadn’t drunk that fifth glass, because her brain wasn’t working properly. “Well,” she said, “all right then.”
He gave her a gentle tug. “What if we did it the other way around?”
“What way?” His chest was in front of her, and she ran her fingers across his muscles.
“What pleasures you?” Suddenly she found herself flat on her back, both of her wrists loosely pinned above her head.
She frowned at him. “Not being held down.”
“Damn.” He let her go.
“Unless you want to,” she said, feeling a sudden streak of excitement.
He cocked his head. “This isn’t about what I want to do. This time is about what you want to do.”
“That’s right,” Edie said, nodding. “I need to give you a road map.”
Gowan came back on his heels, looking down at the luscious, delicate body of his wife. He required every ounce of his self-control not to fall on her and bite her all over. “Tell me what to do, sweeting.”
To his horror, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know. I forgot to ask.” Then her brows drew together. “You were the first one, you know.”
He cupped her face in his hands and gave her a kiss, because he simply couldn’t not do that. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.” Consummating their marriage was one of the most profound moments of his life. Though it would have been better if it hadn’t hurt her so much.
She popped her bottom lip out in such an enchantingly sensual fashion that he had to kiss her again. They lost track of the road map for a while, but then he got back to the point.
“I don’t know,” she confessed.
A slow grin shaped on his lips. “Experimentation,” he murmured, “is one of my favorite pastimes. And I already know some things about you.”