"Too dowdy," sighed Phryne, regarding her reflection in the mirror with skepticism.
Dot eyed the skillfully beaded flapper dress that adorned her mistress, unable to support Miss Fisher's objections. The frock was nothing short of an accomplishment, made of chartreuse velvet with glass beads of jade and marmalade sewn in an intricate geometric design that began at the neckline and flared out to encompass the entire skirt. Beyond the impressiveness of the garment's construction, the amount of skin it showed, in Dot's mind, forbade it from qualifying as dowdy. Even with the beaded fringe that fell from the hem, she could see Phryne's knees quite plainly, and that was to say nothing of her décolletage.
No, this was not a dowdy dress. And Dot said as much out loud.
But Phryne had but a single goal in mind, and that was to send Jack's beautiful jaw plummeting to the floor. They had kept things depressingly tame in the two weeks since their little escapade in Jack's sitting room. Celibacy was beginning to wear hard on Phryne, and she needed something that would speed things along. The beaded dress, while pretty, was not up to such a task, leaving far too much to the imagination. She wanted to let Jack see in precise detail what he was missing. "No, no, I think the new one from House of Fleuri, that gloriously modern little number in aubergine?"
Dot stared at Phryne, knowing exactly which dress she meant. "But Miss...it's a dinner party. At your aunt's."
Phryne ticked an eyebrow. "Yes? And?"
Dot let out a resigned sigh and went to retrieve the dress. She emerged from the closet a moment later with a thin length of silk charmeuse in her arms, a garment that to Dot seemed more like a fancy nightgown than evening wear. Swallowing her personal misgivings, she helped Phryne out of the rejected flapper dress and went to hang it back in the closet while Phryne discarded her underthings.
For this was not a gown beneath which a lady could wear much of anything. It was held up by twisted straps, no more than an inch wide, and plunged both in back and front, hugging the hips and buttocks before flaring into luxurious gathers at the thigh. Undergarments were not an option.
Phryne found the hem and slipped her arms inside, lifting the gown over her head and letting it cascade like water over her body. Dot came to help her adjust it, and Phryne knew by the look of disapproval on her companion's face that she had found just the right dress. The plum-colored charmeuse was heavenly against her skin, and Phryne turned to examine herself again in the mirror.
She clapped her hands together in triumph. "Oh, yes, Dot. This is the one!"Her eyes raked over her reflection as she ran her hands over the shimmering silk. The fabric caught the light in an almost loving way, declaring the lines of her body with a boldness that suited her purpose well. Her hip bones were two defined points against the material, as were her breasts...she would need a bit of cellulose tape, as even Phryne drew the line at sporting visible nipples in Aunt P's dining room. But that would hardly be a bother. She couldn't wait to dab the drool off Jack's face when he saw her.
"A brooch, don't you think, Dot? At the bottom of the neckline, between the breasts? It will add a nice flare."
Dot knew better than to protest. "That diamond fan-shaped one would be pretty, with the little pearl drop dangling off the bottom?"
"Ah, yes, the Cartier! Now you're thinking, Dot," agreed Phryne.
Dot went to retrieve it, pinning it carefully at the point of the V where the two edges of the neckline met, just above Phryne's sternum. Phryne admired the effect in the mirror. The gown certainly skirted the edge of decency, and it filled her with a delicious sense of power.
"Perfect," decided Phryne, smiling at her forbearing companion. "Now all I need is a drink. Send Mr. B up with a gin and tonic, will you?"
Tonight, Jack had a plan. Tonight, he would find a way to bend her to his will. She had taken her pleasure before, but she would not be able to findsatisfaction until he was buried inside her. Tonight, he would remind her of that.
They had not avoided each other's company over the last two weeks, but each encounter had been chaste, conducted either in public or in Phryne's parlor with doors thrown open and a member or two of her staff nearby.
It had seemed a mutual decision, to let things simmer a bit following their encounter on Jack's sofa, which had not had a clear winner or loser but had left him scathed, white-hot from the inside out with excruciating need. The memory of her rocking herself against his leg had fed his dreams nightly, unrelenting. Except in his dreams, he did not sit idle, allowing Phryne her one-sided pleasure. He lifted her into his arms and tossed her onto his bed, or sometimes had simply rolled her onto her back right there on the sofa, demonstrating all the ways in which his tongue was preferable to his trouser leg. In most of his dreams, she had a few tricks to show him with her own tongue as well.
Such dreams had stiffened his resolve, but not in a way that would win the wager for him. No...his longing for her was sharpened to a dangerous point, and Jack was not certain how much more he could take.
He had decided that Aunt Prudence's dinner party would provide the perfect opportunity to end their little standoff. Phryne would not expect it, not under the watchful eye of the beloved old harridan. But Jack had clever, quiet hands.
Even better, he predicted that the forbidden setting would fuel her desire...if he could just sneak her into some dark corner, the possibility of being caught would almost certainly trigger Phryne's attraction to danger. If he was lucky, it would stimulate her enough to do most of the work for him. The situation would benefit him further by dampening his own desire—Jack preferred to take his pleasure in perfect privacy, and the semi-public setting would help him keep his head on straight. Or so he hoped.
He drove to her house in the dark, mentally listing the things he had to prepare himself for before arriving. One—an unforeseeably dangerous dress. Two—that perfect blend of French perfume and Phryne. 3—the luscious lines of her neck when she stretched up to look at him. Four—a low neckline, and that delicious slice of shadow it would create between her breasts. Five—
No, it was better if he didn't get to number five. He pulled into her drive, gulping back his anticipation and trying to smother it with calm. It would not do for him to arrive to Mrs. Stanley's with his trousers in a predicament.
He approached the door and tapped at the stained glass window with a single knuckle, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he waited. Within seconds Mr. Butler had swung the door open, but Jack remained frozen in the doorway, transfixed. For Phryne had chosen that very moment to bestow her exquisite presence on the staircase.
She descended the stairs like she had been dressed by none other than her fairy godmother, and for a moment Jack thought she must still be wearing her peignoir. But no, her jewels declared her dressed for dinner. His eyes grew wide as he adjusted to this reality.
The gown she wore reached the floor and was elegant but simple—free of embroidery, pleats, flounces, and the like. Just fabric, seams, and Phryne. It was constructed of the most exquisite material, satin or silk or some such expensive nonsense, made for the specific purpose of making men weak. It was soft and glossy and somewhat similar to the color of eggplant, though it didn't feel right to compare such an exquisite shade to a vegetable. The color was a delicious contrast to her pale complexion and the fabric floated over her body like a second skin, the skirt splitting open in the front as she walked to reveal white legs.
The material clung to her jealously, exposing every dip and curve of her figure—the fact that it lay smooth and taut across her thighs insisted that she wore nothing underneath it at all. The sweet swells of her breasts were peeking out from the slippery silk, but the shadow he had imagined was eliminated entirely by the plunge of the neckline, which exposed her nearly to the breastbone. She had punctuated the dip with a small, simple brooch that seemed to taunt him, daring him to let his gaze linger in that very dangerous place.
He gulped then, remembering Mr. Butler, and attempted to disguise his resounding admiration. "Evening, Mr. B. Good evening, Miss Fisher. You look astonishing as always."
He feared his attempt at nonchalance had come off rather lamely, but there was no hope for it. She could have thwarted the Trojan War, had Paris laid eyes on her before Helen of Troy, so what hope was there for Jack Robinson? Poor sap, he thought. Then again, he prided himself on the fact that, before they had finally admitted their feelings to each other, he had held out for longer than most men would have dared. And there was fight left in him yet. She thought she could get her way with nothing but a good dress—well, she wasn't half wrong, but damned if he would make it that easy for her.
"Thank you, Jack. It's new. Do you think Aunt P will like it?"
"I think she'll try to wrestle you into the coat closet and lock you in," he replied, watching Mr. Butler leave the room before approaching Phryne, who had paused on the bottom stair so that they were eye to eye. He stood there before her for several long seconds, allowing the heat catch and flare between them, insolently holding her gaze and luxuriating in the warmth of her breath on his face. Then he let his eyes drop meaningfully to her breasts, indicating his notice of her nipples, which were declaring themselves proudly against the flimsy fabric. He noticed her hands had clenched into fists at her sides, struggling to remain still under his examination. One side of his mouth curled into a roguish grin. "Are you cold, my darling? I'd say it's feeling a bit...nipply in here."
She bit back a grin. "Oh, yes! Yes, thank you, Jack, I almost forgot."
She placed a hand on his shoulder as she stepped off the stair and slid around him to the bureau in the foyer, extracting a canister of cellulose tape from one of the drawers. He watched her as she popped open the tin and used a fingernail to find the end of the tape, peeling it back and using her teeth to break off a small piece.
"Watch how clever I am," said Phryne with a smile, holding up the tape like a magician about to perform an impressive trick. Then, flicking her eyes up to make sure Jack was watching, she slipped her fingers inside the neckline of her dress and applied the tape to her skin. When she removed her hand and smoothed the area, the beloved little bump had vanished. With agile fingers she gave the same treatment to her left breast, then she arched her back and held out her hands at her sides, inviting Jack's appraisal. "What do you think of that, Jack?"
Jack gulped. He daren't tell her what he really thought. "I think the poor things have been wrongfully imprisoned and will be terribly chafed when you finally choose release them."
She grinned coyly. "Nonsense. A nice hot bath will soak the tape right off."
Jack smirked. If tonight went according to plan, her nipples would know his fingers as their liberators, not bath water.
Dot came down the stairs then, arms full of Phryne's sable cloak, which she draped over her mistress's delicate white shoulders.
"You approve of this ensemble, Inspector? For a dinner at Mrs. Stanley's?" Dot asked tersely as she smoothed imaginary imperfections from the luxurious fur.
"Certainly not," grinned Jack, allowing himself only the smallest glimpse at the way the silk hugged Phryne's backside as she turned to retrieve a beaded handbag from the dining room table. "Which means all must be right with the world."
Miffed that she had not found an ally in Jack, Dot bid them both a pleasant evening and disappeared back upstairs.
Phryne and Jack pulled up to Mrs. Stanley's mansion at half past eight, Jack feeling rather smug at having endured the entire trip with her hand on his thigh and suffering relatively little damage to his calm. The trick had been a rigorous contemplation of his coin collection, carefully combing over the details of each individual coin in his mind until the threat from her touch was more or less neutralized.
Mrs. Stanley found them almost the moment the butler had let them through the door, looking predictably scandalized as Phryne's fur was swept away to the coat closet and the gown was revealed in full.
"Phryne Fisher!" she hissed, frowning deeply at her niece. "You are at a dinner party, not a cabaret! And you, Jack Robinson, letting her out of the house like that! I can practically count her ribs!"
Jack gave Prudence his most helpless smile. "You'll have to forgive me, Mrs. Stanley, but surely you don't think me so foolish as to stand in the way of your niece's fashion choices," he drawled. "I would sooner try and stop speeding train."
The old dragon gave a heartfelt harumph and led them into the drawing room, where a crowd of the upper crust—emphasis on crust—mingled with drinks in hand. This was Jack's least favorite type of gathering, composed of wealthy old stiff-necks who looked down their noses at him when he announced himself as someone who dared to work for his living. To Phryne's credit, she was quick to come to his defense when she felt he'd been slighted, and always wore him on her arm with nothing but the deepest pride. Still, attempting to fit in with this set, even for a single evening, was generally insufferable, and the promise of seducing the stunning woman at his side was the only thing that could possibly sustain him.
They were called to dinner before long, where Jack stirred up trouble by insisting on sitting beside Phryne. Mrs. Stanley tended to keep to the old Victorian way, which demanded that couples be separated while dining, but proximity to Phryne at the table was imperative to his plans, and eventually their hostess conceded the point in Jack's favor.
By now, Phryne was growing very suspicious of Jack, who had been eerily calm all evening. He had seemed appropriately impressed with her gown, but when she had pulled the stunt with the tape he had looked on as if witnessing a mildly impressive science project, awarding her his attention but keeping his face maddeningly neutral. Which meant, more than likely, he was planning something.
And that made Phryne nervous. For if he were to invite her to one of the dark rooms at the back of the house she would not hesitate. She craved his hands on her, she craved proof that he was not as unaffected as he seemed so far. A vivid image sprang into her mind of him bending her over a desk, holding her there with his pelvis while he tugged her skirts up between their bodies until she felt cold air on her backside. She knew exactly how the thick length of him would feel through his trousers, pressing insistently at the back of her bare thigh. The scenario made her squirm in her chair like a child in church.
Her fantasies were interrupted as a lusciously pink lobster potage was brought out and set before them. The idle chatter at the table slowed while the guests tested their first course.
"I went lobstering once, it was exhilarating," bragged the older gentleman on Phryne's left side, dabbing potage from his profuse moustache. "We caught a whole bundle of them and had a lobster feast that evening, I felt like quite the adventurer by the end."
Phryne smiled politely and dipped her spoon into her bowl, preparing a bland reply. But before she could offer it she was frozen by the sensation of fingers creeping up her right thigh.
Ah, yes. I might have guessed, thought Phryne, closing her lips around her spoon and relishing the tart creaminess of the soup in concert with the pleasure of Jack's touch.
He managed his own potage quite deftly, giving no indication from the elbow up that his left hand was anywhere but in his own lap where it should be. Phryne tucked herself a bit closer to the table, making sure her neighbor's view of Jack was obscured. It did not even occur to her to stop him.
His touch was gentle and sweet throughout the entire soup course, stroking her languorously just above the knee. There was constant chatter around them, but Phryne paid it no mind, making no attempts to join in. Her head was high, high in the clouds, and not even for the sake of politeness could she manage a comment on what she thought of The Mikado, which had been on at the Princess for the past week, nor even what she thought of the recent catastrophe on Wall Street, which was no doubt beginning to affect the wealth of many at the table. Jack's hand made such matters seem paltry to her, and when she had polished off the rest of her soup she reached down and grasped his fingers where they were on her thigh, eagerly intertwining them and squeezing until she could feel his pulse pounding against her palm.
The footmen came to collect the dishes, and Jack eased his hand out of her grip to avoid being caught. As if nothing had happened, he casually engaged in light conversation with the old crone beside him, whose copious jewels made her no less of an insufferable fishwife. Phryne resented the old woman for diverting his attention with a load of nonsense about her various allergies and how blessed she was that they didn't include shellfish.
The next course was brought out—poached oysters in cream, a dish that would have made Mr. Butler toss aside his pride and beg Aunt Prudence's cook for the recipe. The diners were presented with shallow bowls holding eight oysters on a bed of ice, each one bathed in a camembert cream sauce and garnished with caviar and a dainty sprig of tarragon. Phryne took up her oyster fork and began to scrape the tender flesh from the shell, letting her eyes dart quickly over to Jack as she raised the meat to her lips. He had managed to pass the old woman's tirade down to Aunt Prudence, who was lamenting her own allergy to cheap metals. But he made no further move to touch Phryne. Alas, the oysters required two hands to eat, and he could not very well reach over to her without interrupting his meal, which would likely draw attention. Phryne's decided her leg was safe as long as the oysters lasted, but probably not much further.
"These are amazing," he mumbled beside her, gulping down his fourth oyster. "I had caviar once when I was stationed in France and hated it, but it's lovely with the oysters."
"If that was even caviar they were feeding you," smiled Phryne, raising an oyster shell to her lips and keeping her eyes fixed on Jack as she sipped at the cream sauce with lust in her eyes. "Oysters are considered to be an aphrodisiac, you know."
Jack took a sip of champagne, aiming his gaze at a painting across the room. Then he dipped his face toward her, lowering his voice to a murmur. "Phryne, you yourself are an aphrodisiac, from that ridiculously perfect bob to the scarlet lacquer on your toenails. I do not need a bowl of slimy mollusks to make me want you. The mere sight of you makes me weak."
His voice stroked her like fingers, igniting fires in all of her intimate places, each word shooting an arrow of longing through the very core of her. She widened her grin in a feeble attempt to hide how profoundly she was affected.
"If you were weak, Jack, I would have been digging through your case files weeks ago. You can certainly hold your own."
Darting her eyes around the table to ensure there were not being observed, she inched her hand to where his lay upon the table, stroking his pinky lightly with her own. His eyelids lowered at the touch and his irises seemed to darken. She saw his tongue dart out to moisten his lips, so quickly she might have missed it.
"Generous of you to say. But I fear I may be reaching my limits. I think of little besides you these days, Miss Fisher, waking or sleeping. Being near you but not allowed inside you is torture. A torture I should be used to, as it compiled the first year or so of our acquaintance, but...now that I've had you it is desperately hard to go without. You cannot imagine."
Phryne was about to protest that she certainly could imagine when a mutton-chopped gentleman, called Mr. Hawthorne if memory served, spoke across the table and broke the spell of lust that gripped them.
"Tell us, Inspector...it's Robinson, isn't it?"
Before her eyes, Jack replaced the frustrated desire on his face with a mask of polite boredom. "It is," he confirmed.
"Yes, Inspector, I'm curious. Do you think this temperance movement will catch hold in Victoria? I've just spent a month in Napa Valley at my cousin's vineyard—former vineyard, really—and he's making a killing selling grapes. More than he ever made on wine. The Prohibition nonsense they've put on over there has everyone making the stuff in their own basements. Do you think something like that could happen to here? It would save me a pretty penny in production costs. Though I'm sure you lads in law enforcement would have a time keeping the town dry."
Jack tried to answer neutrally but Hawthorne was not willing to let him off so easy, and soon Jack had been sucked into a conversation that drew the interest of the entire table.
Phryne tried to use the time to steel herself, to think of how she might preempt him, but all she could seem to think about was the blue velvet chaise in her late uncle's study, a room that would be private and dark and far from the other guests. She was already imagining him pressing her into that chaise with the weight of his body, anointing her lips with urgent, probing kisses.
Heat crept up her nape as she tried to recall with exact detail the sensation of his open mouth sliding down the tendons of her neck, and she was so lost in her cogitations that it was a complete surprise when her empty oyster shells were whisked away and replaced by a steaming plate of sliced lamb smothered in shallot sauce.
The conversation on temperance had been hijacked by Lord Ackworth, who had recently been to visit the Indian viceroy, with whom he claimed to be particular friends. Lord Ackworth proceeded to embark on a tirade against a certain Mahatma Ghandi, who had been stirring things up for the British Raj, and Jack's opinion was no longer required.
Phryne stole a glance at him, but he seemed absorbed in his meal and made no further attempts to engage her. Not until pudding, at least.
After a flamboyant number of dishes had been paraded in and out of the room, a delicately molded lemon blancmange at last signaled the end of the meal. Something about the dainty treat, or perhaps it was his impending escape from the dining table, seemed to spur Jack into action. She had just spooned her first bite when his fingers had found her again, this time distinctly more urgent.
He searched the gathers of her skirt until he found the split in the middle, flicking the fabric aside and grasping hungrily at her bare flesh. Phryne bit her lip as she felt his touch curl against the sensitive skin at the back of her knee. She noticed her spoon had frozen over her plate and hurriedly slipped the bite of creamy gelatine into her mouth. She risked a glance in his direction, certain she'd find his face twisted by the same longing that was abrading her from throat to sternum, but on the outside her remained cool and impassive. Damn him.
Against her thigh, however, his fingers scrawled a very different story. He branded her with his touch, scraping his fingernails up the inside of her thigh, higher, higher, all the way to the place where her leg creased into her hip. No more than an inch from the place that craved his touch the most. Then he stopped, palming the inside of her thigh before seizing a handful of her flesh.
A tiny whimper escaped from Phryne and she disguised it with a little cough. In the back of her mind she wondered faintly at how no one at the table seemed to notice them at all, though she thought surely Jack's movements had grown considerably less subtle.
But the old coots, her aunt included, seemed utterly blind to the fact that a very lucky woman was being wickedly groped, right beneath their crystal plates of blancmange. Jack gripped her a bit harder, making her picture the depressions his fingers must be making in her flesh. She clamped her legs together reflexively, trapping his hand between her thighs and creating a soothing pressure at her center.
Jack's fork fell from his fingers, hitting the table with a quiet thump. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, looking a touch less impassive at the sensation of his entire hand being clenched between her warm thighs. Served him right! She swallowed a heaping spoonful of her blancmange, the cool dessert doing what little it could to assuage the blazing heat that licked at her insides.
It seemed an eternity before the dessert plates were cleared away, but once they were Aunt Prudence promptly announced for the ladies to follow her through to the parlor and leave the gentlemen to their after dinner drinks.
Phryne was about to suggest that the two of them make an early departure when Jack curled firm fingers around the crook of her elbow and leaned towards her in a gesture that was more intimate than what he would normally attempt in front of witnesses. "Your uncle's study. Five minutes, or less, if you can manage it," he instructed gruffly. Then he released her, allowing her to stand and leave the room before anyone took notice of their exchange. As she followed the other women into the parlor, she couldn't help but feel as if she had left her heart and soul behind in the dining room.
Phryne remained standing once they'd all filed into the parlor, watching the minutes tick away on the ornate cuckoo clock near the door, hardly paying any mind to the other guests as she kept her eyes sharp for an opportunity to disappear. At the five minute mark the butler shuffled in with a tray of cocktails, and as her aunt assisted with passing out the refreshments Phryne seized the opportunity to creep out of the room. Feeling confident that her departure had not been noted, she turned the corner and slid out of her shoes to allow for the stealthiest possible exit.
After that it was pell-mell to the study, where she hoped Jack would already be waiting for her. Phryne tried to think strategy but found it utterly impossible; instead her mind was filled with the image of him waiting for her, standing in the shadows, the darkness doing nothing to disguise the raw lust in those inimitable eyes. Jack had so many ways of positioning his body, most of which made her weak at the knees, but none so much as when he had something to lean against—yes, one elbow leaning, one hand at his hip. Or in his pocket. That was how she pictured him now...the mere thought of him like that made her want to strip him.
Phryne reached the door to the study in record time and stood outside for a few beats, catching her breath. Despite her efforts, she was still practically giddy when she turned the knob, opening the door just wide enough to slide inside before easing it closed behind her. She turned.
Jack was there, looking almost precisely as she'd imagined. His eyes were fixed on her, but not on her face. His expression was almost wolfish—she had never seen him look that way before, and it turned her insides to jelly. He was leaning against the fireplace, one arm stretched out across the mantle, the other shoved deep in his pocket. Phryne wondered, not for the first time, if he had the ability to read her mind.
She swallowed hard as she considered what was about to happen. There was an entire party of people mere feet away from them. The buzz of voices was still audible even with the door closed behind her, and if Aunt Prudence noticed their absence there was a chance she'd come looking. What was more, there was no way of latching the door.
God in heaven, why did those facts thrill her so much?
"Hello, Jack," she murmured to him, moving sinuously to the velvet chaise and sinking down onto it, tossing her legs out in front of her before sliding her bare feet up a few inches, causing her knees to bend and the skirt to fall into two pieces at the slit, baring her almost to the hip.
Jack studied her movements intensely, his mouth dry at the as he examined her enticing pose. It took all his strength not to lunge for her. No, no, not yet...he wanted to look at her, to savor her, to commit every second to memory. He was already tossing aside the whole idea of the wager like it was a bit of rubbish. The only thing in his mind right now was Phryne. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to tease, he didn't want to play any more games. He wanted to be inside of her, her legs wrapped around him—in the fewest amount of steps possible. With her dress split open like that, his view of the tuft of dark hair between her legs was obscured only by her calves, which were pressed together and arranged for that specific purpose. He would only need to step forward, cover her knees with his hands and tease them carefully apart...
Jack mentally shook himself. No, no, there was a plan. The plan was to make Phryne beg for mercy. And to put an end to this damned wager once and for all.
He thought he might have proved by now that, in their relationship at least, females did not hold absolute power when it came to bedroom matters. But her power was not be underestimated either. And he needed to make his move before she began to wield it in earnest.
"Jack, my God," she laughed breathlessly, running her hands slowly along the sides of her bare thighs. "I thought for sure we would be caught at the table. But you are so sneaky, I don't think anyone suspected a thing. Full marks."
He was too seized with lust to form a coherent response. Instead he pushed away from the mantle, stalking towards her and reaching for her, intending to sweep her up to him for kiss that would to shake her very foundations. But she rolled deftly to her feet and danced away from him, an impish smile spreading over her face.
"Lipstick," she explained, retrieving her handbag from the table by the door and extracting a monogrammed handkerchief. "We wouldn't want to smear any on that spotless white shirt. Then we would most certainly be found out."
He pushed his hands back into his pockets impatiently, tilting his head and glancing up from beneath his lashes, unable to keep his eyes off her as she dabbed at her lips.
He suspected this was a tactic, an attempt to gather her wits before he began his onslaught. But he found he could not wait, and moved towards her as she dabbed—"Jack, I'm not finished!"—but instead of kissing her he reached inside her dress and extracted her tape-covered breast, a bit more roughly than he'd meant to. The lack of tenderness only seemed to inflame her, though, and the handkerchief grew still against her mouth.
"Jack…"
With his thumb, he teased the corner of the tape that suppressed her nipple, all the while gazing into her eyes, letting her see every inch of the violent need that was tearing through him.
Once he had coaxed the corner up he dropped his eyes to his task. Using his left hand to gently cup her breast, the fingers of his right grasped the corner of the tape and peeled it carefully away from her flesh, rubbing his left thumb soothingly over the skin he exposed.
"It looks red," he breathed. "Let me see it in the light."
He grasped her by the hips and nimbly maneuvered her until her buttocks bumped up against the desk, across which moonlight was spilled, carved into parallelograms by the window panes. He swung her around until the glow fanned over her creamy skin, giving light to his task. "Just a bit chafed, I think," he assured her. Swallowing, Jack plucked up the end of the tape again, guiding it carefully until her nipple popped free.
The sight of it, pink and puckered and swollen with anticipation, made him forget everything. He snatched the rest of the tape off carelessly, his head rushing down to suck her flesh into his mouth. Her gasp of surprise and pain became a moan of deep pleasure as his lips closed around her and he began to apologize with his tongue.
Jack shivered as he felt her hands tangle in his hair, and he belatedly realized that it was unlikely they'd ever be able to emerge from this room looking the way they did going into it. Perhaps Aunt Prudence's dinner party had not been the wisest venue for his sortie after all.
Alas, it was far too late to worry about that now. His ears drank in her mewling cries and his tongue curled over her velvety flesh, drawing hard on her nipple to soothe away the imprisonment of the tape.
"Jack, please," she panted. "The other." Jack pulled back a little to realize she had removed the tape from her other breast on her own. He obeyed her greedily, sliding both straps from her shoulders and letting the silk fall away from her chest as he lavished attention on the opposite nipple. He wasn't honestly sure what was keeping the dress from slipping off of her completely, other than the snugness at her hips, but he was partially glad it had stayed put. If the whole thing had dropped to the ground he did not like to think how quickly he would have lost control.
She held his head in her arms as he lathed one breast with his tongue, gently cupping the other in his hand. So close to her chest, he could hear the sounds of her pleasure humming within her ribs before they reached her lips. The vibrations of her moans against his mouth sent darts of arousal flying to his groin, until he was stiff and hot and warring against the confinement of his trousers.
Ah. Well. His coin collection could not save him now. Not even the image of Aunt Prudence in her nightie could overpower the excruciating pleasure of Phryne's delicate flesh against his tongue, the heat of her silk-clad hips beneath his hands, the flowery notes of her perfume overtaking his senses, and he was beginning to fear that all was lost. Or won, depending on how you looked at it.
Jack straightened in front of her, clearly ready to go in for the kill. He sucked in air at almost the same moment he grabbed her lips with his own, and the insistent, gasping sound of his lungs filling with air, together with the delicious give of his mouth, tugged arousal through Phryne as if on a string. She kissed him back without restraint, pushing his jacket from his shoulders before securing her arms tightly around his middle. Against her stomach pressed the evidence of his desire, and suddenly Phryne had only one thing in her head.
Jack seemed to have his own objective, however; his hands were sliding hotly over her buttocks and down her thighs, finding the slit in her skirt again before reaching for the moist heat between her legs. But Phryne pushed his questing hand away, instead grasping at the buttons to his trousers and pulling them open with practiced fingers.
"It's your turn, darling. You've more than earned it," she murmured into his ear, pressing a soft kiss behind the lobe.
"Phryne…"
But whether her name was meant as a warning or encouragement Phryne never discovered, for as her fingers closed around his firm, silken length, the capacity for speech seemed to leave him.
She stared into his face as she moved her grip in a leisurely, downward stroke, mesmerized by the way pleasure contorted his features. His lips had fallen open, his brow creasing severely over his eyes, which had fluttered shut. She let her touch wander smoothly back to the tip, finding the sensitive spot at the underside of his crown and rubbing gently with her thumb.
His eyes flew open before squeezing tightly shut again, a low groan filling his chest as he planted his hands on the desk at either side of her hips, struggling to steady himself.
"Wicked," he mumbled, reaching up to loosen his tie and open his collar. "You are absolutely wicked."
Phryne began to move her hand more quickly, pursing her lips in a knowing smile. "I haven't even begun to be wicked, Jack."
Her strokes settled into a steady rhythm and the expression on his face made her shiver. She wanted desperately to push him backwards until he fell into the chair, then discover what would happen to his features when she replaced her hand with her mouth.
But no. Not unless he asked her to. If she was to win she would have to make him beg.
However, another glance at his face told her that he was farther along in his pleasure than she'd anticipated. His breathing was coming fast and he had given up moaning all together, his face clenched in concentration as his climax began to build.
She should take her hand away. It was what he had done to her, after all. But then he buried his mouth at her neck, pressing his lips hotly to her skin and wrapping an arm around her waist. He ground his hips against her thigh, limiting the space she had in which to move her hand and forcing her to grip him a bit harder to maintain her rhythm. Phryne simply didn't have the heart to pull away from him now.
She moved her hand even faster, using her free hand to grip him by the hair and ease his head back, so she could graze her teeth over the skin exposed at his collar.
He grunted, trembling in her arms and seeming to panic a little. "You have to stop, Phryne, wait, I can't—it'll make a mess—"
But Phryne refused to remove her hand, and somewhere in the midst of his protests the profoundly unwelcome sound of Aunt Prudence's voice broke into the haze of desire that surrounded them. "Phryne? Phryne! Where are you?"
At the very same time, Jack muffled a shout against her neck, and then he was cursing and shuddering helplessly in her arms.
"Phryne, where have you run off to, girl? Mrs. Hayes wants to ask you about your car!"
Phryne wanted to club the old woman. "Just a moment, Aunt P! Go back to the drawing room, I'll be there in a moment!"
Jack still had her trapped against the desk as he tried to catch his breath, and she stroked a hand gently over his hair before carefully extracting herself. She retrieved her handkerchief from where she had dropped it on the ground and used it to clean her hand, tossing it in the bin before she heard Prudence again.
"Where are you? What on earth are you doing?"
Phryne had just managed to get the straps of her dress back onto her shoulders when her aunt threw the door open. Phryne looked back at Jack, panicked, but he had cleverly seated himself at the desk, looking annoyingly composed.
"Inspector? What—what are…" but somewhere before finishing her sentence Prudence seemed to note Phryne's mussed hair and absent lipstick. "Oh! Oh my goodness, what on earth—"
"Don't fret, Aunt P, we will slip out the back. Give everyone our regrets, will you? I'm dreadfully sorry about all this, but if you could just go back to the parlor, please?" begged Phryne, giving her aunt her most imploring look.
"We'll discuss all of this over tea tomorrow," grumbled Aunt Prudence, but she turned on her heel as requested and left them to their depravities.
"Damn damn damn," mumbled Phryne, running her hands through her hair and turning back to Jack. "Damn," she added, for good measure.
"Home would be best," said Jack, embarrassment and satisfaction warring within him. "I, for one, need a change of clothes and a bath."
Phryne's face split into a sly grin. She swayed over to him, coming around the desk to find him still unbuttoned and hanging freely from his trousers. Dark desire drew her features and she reached forward to tuck him back in and button him up. Jack gave an involuntary twitch as she touched him, and was certain he could be ready to perform again by the time they returned to her house. He might even be prepared to beg her. Because making love to Phryne Fisher was, at this juncture, the only thing he wanted in this world. He wanted it far more than he wanted that foolish car.
She pulled him up by the hand and led him out through the solarium towards the car.
"Your house," she said softly as the climbed in, scooting over and leaning her body against him. "There are far too many ears at mine."