Page 17 of Prescription for Sin

“Haven’t you?” He met her gaze deliberately. “Tell me what you’ve learned about visual pleasure.”

She straightened, falling back on her analytical nature. “That it creates physical responses: elevated pulse, shortness of breath, heightened skin sensitivity—”

“No.” He circled behind her again, unable to face those trust-filled eyes. “Tell me what you felt, not what you observed.”

“I felt…” She paused, and he could almost hear her mind working to abandon clinical terms. “I felt as though my skin was too tight. As though every nerve was straining toward you. When you looked at my lips, I could almost taste—” She stopped abruptly.

“Almost taste what?” His voice had grown rough again.

“You,” she whispered, the confession hanging in the air between them.

The word nearly broke his resolve. “Lesson one is complete,” he said quickly. “Tomorrow, we explore scent.”

“But—”

“Trust me, Miss Brown. Some lessons require time to absorb.”

And distance, he thought, watching her façade crack further. Distance to remember why he was here, why he couldn’t let himself drown in those wondering eyes.

He forced himself to turn away, each step toward the door requiring iron will. Behind him, he heard her soft exhale, almost a sigh. He didn't dare look back, knowing his resolve would shatter if he saw her expression. Only when he was safely in the corridor did he allow himself to breathe.

In his borrowed chamber, Everett paced like a caged beast, her whispered “you” echoing in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The way she’d swayed toward him, lips parted, trust and desire warring in those remarkable eyes.

His body burned with unfulfilled longing. The memory of her quickened breath, the flutter of her pulse beneath delicate skin, the way she’d studied him with such hungry curiosity, it all conspired to drive him mad.

Sinking onto the bed, he surrendered to forbidden thoughts of Miss Brown. Gripping his member that had grown under her attention, he imagined her scientific interest turning to passion, her clinical touch transforming into caresses. His hand moved of its own accord, seeking relief from the exquisite torture of their lesson, from his fascination with her skills that equalled her beauty, from her innocent licentiousness.

He imagined her breasts bared to him, her nipples coiled with arousal and darkened from his caresses. His cock then entered her cunny, stretching her to the limit, her juice overflowing, each thrust eliciting a moan from her as her nails dug into his arms.

Release, when it came, left him feeling more wanting than satisfied. Tomorrow they would explore scent, and God help him; he wasn’t sure how much of this sweet torment he could endure without touching her.

Sleep eluded him for hours, his dreams haunted by blue eyes and whispered confessions of desire.

Emma stood before her mirror, fingers trembling as she unpinned her hair. Her clinical mind tried desperately to categorise the evening’s sensations: elevated pulse, dilated pupils, heightened sensitivity. But science failed to capture the way her skin still tingled where his gaze had lingered or how her body ached with unfamiliar yearning.

She’d touched countless bodies in her work, had even known intimate relations, yet nothing had prepared her for this overwhelming awareness. The way he had looked at her—not as a nurse, not as a lady, but as a woman—had awakened something primitive and hungry beneath her controlled exterior.

In her bed, sleep proved elusive. Her nightgown felt too constraining, the sheets too rough against her sensitised skin. She pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the unfamiliar ache. What would his hands feel like, she wondered, if his mere gaze could provoke such responses?

“Research,” she whispered into the darkness, trying to maintain some pretence of empirical study. But there was nothing clinical about the way her body responded to memories of his voice, his presence, the heat of him standing behind her.

Her fingers strayed to her throat, tracing the path his eyes had taken. Then to her breast, seeking to understand these new sensations. She caressed her aching nipples, then pinched, biting her lip to stifle a gasp at the unexpected pleasure.

Tomorrow they would explore scent. The thought sent another wave of heat through her body. What other lessons awaited? And how would she maintain her composure through six more days of such exquisite torture?

Sleep, when it finally came, brought dreams of dark eyes and whispered instructions, of desire that defied all scientific explanation.

Chapter seven

Scent

8December 1840

Dearest Helen,

I fear I have made a terrible mistake in agreeing to these "lessons" with Mr Hughes. Last night's experiment in visual appreciation has left me quite undone. Who knew a man's gaze alone could make one's skin feel like it's been struck by lightning? My carefully maintained professional composure shattered under his dark eyes, leaving me feeling positively scandalous. And he hadn't laid a finger on me!

He claims our next lesson will explore the power of scent. Scent! As if watching me come undone from mere looking wasn't enough torture, now he intends to… What exactly? Have me sniff him like a dog? Will he throw me a bone afterward?