Eye of the Beholder by Emma Jay Read Free Book Online

her
clitoris.
    Goodness, she was wet and swollen, but her
caress felt good. She moved her finger deeper, because his cock was
certainly longer than her finger. He would put the whole thing in
her, would he not? She pushed deeper and wiggled her finger, and a
small moan of pleasure escaped her lips. Yes, having him inside her
would be delicious. Her clitoris, as he called it, begged for
attention, so she slid her finger out of her body and across the
quivering flesh. Yes. Yes. She didn’t have the strength to resist,
only flicked her fingers back and forth until the wave hit her,
weakening her knees until she leaned forward against her
dresser.
    She looked up into the mirror and saw her
flushed face and her own knowing eyes. Would Grayson Adams
recognize her knowledge when they went riding tomorrow?
    Was it wrong to dream about two different men
helping her find her body’s pleasure?
     
    ***
     
    Her mother hovered as Sarah welcomed Grayson
Adams into the drawing room. She was surprised by her urge to look
at his hands, to see their shape, to imagine how they’d feel
against her skin. Her new discoveries of her body made her so aware
of everything male about him, and how it would fit against
everything female of her. Something flashed in his eyes, like
curiosity, as he bent over her hand in greeting. Did he see the
difference in her?
    His scent wafted up and the familiarity of it
took her aback. A moment passed before she recognized the
scent.
    He smelled like Monsieur Cresson’s house, the
oils, the paints, the turpentine. An idea struck her so hard, so
quick, she wanted to shake it off. No, it couldn’t be. Grayson
Adams was not Monsieur Cresson. Why would he be? But the
coincidence—Grayson paying attention to her as soon as she posed
for the artist? Was it just coincidence?
    Of course it was. Grayson didn’t speak with
an accent. And Monsieur Cresson surely didn’t move about freely in
society. Still, she couldn’t shake the idea as he stepped back,
sweeping his hand ahead of him.
    “Shall we?”
    He’d brought her a mare to ride, complete
with sidesaddle. His man rode behind, a hat pulled low over his
eyes, but he would serve as chaperone. Something about his posture
drew her attention, until Grayson stepped up assist her into the
saddle. Her gaze dropped to his hands, hoping to catch another
hint, but he wore gloves. She allowed herself the pleasure of his
hands encircling her waist as he lifted her, let her own hands rest
on his broad shoulders, lingering there until she was settled in
her seat. She’d forgotten how lovely his eyes were, a deep green,
and she sought her memory for recollection of Monsieur Cresson’s
eyes when he wore his domino. They were light, she recalled, but it
was hard to see in the candlelit room.
    She made an effort to put her suspicions
behind her as he mounted his own horse and they set out toward the
park.
    “The color of your habit suits you far better
than the gowns you wear,” he said, giving her another jolt. Had
Monsieur Cresson not said something similar, that she needed to
stay away from pastels? Her habit was a deep red, the one outfit
she owned with real color.
    “I thank you.” She wished she could think of
something to say. How easily she could speak to Monsieur Cresson.
How much of that was because she was blindfolded, anonymous in a
way? “Do you ride in the park often?”
    “Not as much as I’d like. And never with such
lovely company.”
    His flattery puzzled her. She knew she was
not considered any great beauty by society, but Grayson seemed to
have an unusual attraction for her.
    “And you?” he asked. “Do you ride often in
the park?”
    “Not since my first season. I don’t spend
much time out of doors or in company, other than the balls and
evening entertainments.”
    “I had noticed you keep to yourself much of
the time, even there.”
    “I hardly have anything in common with the
young girls coming out, and less with ladies my age who