Her unexpected mate

A dance of seduction

*Aaron*

Growing up in the rookeries had taught me to never show exactly what I feel so I do not allow so much as a muscle in my cheek to tic, but the bluntness of her words takes me off guard. As does the fact that she continues to hold my gaze as though she hadn’t said something outrageous.

I want to tear off the damn mask and see if she is blushing. If she is, it is only her cheeks because her chin remains a pale alabaster, with no hint whatsoever of pink or a warming.

I do not like at all the singular purpose for which she has come to my club, and the irony is not lost on me. I revel in sin, and enjoy my role in introducing people to vice. It is unlikely I am headed to heaven and so I fully intend to enjoy the ride that will deliver me to hell. I understand people have urges, and have never understood why fault is found with people satisfying those urges in or out of marriage or mate bond.

Yet at this moment I want her to be more discerning in her tastes, her desires. I do not want her interested in the act alone. I want her interested in engaging in the act because of how madly she is drawn to someone in particular, drawn to me.

What the devil is the matter with me?

“If you look closely, you will see that some of the men here wear a red button on their left lapel. They will provide that service for you”. I say the words flatly and yet an unwelcome tightness is building within me like a volcano on the verge of erupting.

“I’m not interested in them. You intrigue me, Mr. Tempest. You are the one I want”.

“Alas, I do not mix business and pleasure”. lt nearly kills me to say the words.

“Consider it all business”.

“I do not involve myself with my clientele”.

“I’m not asking you to involve yourself. I’m asking you to bed me”.

I am accustomed to being the one in pursuit, not the one pursued. While I appreciate her boldness, and is quite taken with it if I am honest, it does make me feel uncentered. It isn’t that I do not want to sleep with her. It is simply that I am wary of her motives. Do she-wolves in whom I show an interest feel the same, worry they might be left with regrets ?

Is it even possible to f**k her without involving myself ? Certainly I have had encounters that were designed to merely slake lust, but she seems deserving of more. Does she fully comprehend the loneliness that can strike when the body is replete, but nothing calls to the soul ? It is an odd thing, having just met her, to realize I do not want to sleep with her and then be done with it. I want a bit more time to explore the possibilities of her.

“We can stand here and debate or we can waltz and debate”. Bowing slightly, mockingly, if truth be told, I wave toward the dance floor. “Shall we ?”

“I’m not wearing shoes”.

“All the better”.

*Senya*

How often have I considered slipping off my slippers, certain the flow of my skirts would

keep my bare feet hidden while I dance ? I abhor shoes, the manner in which they confine, often causing my toes to pinch. So the freedom I now have is as delightful as I have always thought it would be, with my soles skimming over the polished wood as he sweeps me over the floor.

It doesn’t hurt that a handsome man whose gaze never wavers from me is the one doing the sweeping.

“l shocked you with my bluntness”. I had shocked myself, truth be told. I hadn’t meant

to blurt it out, had intended to be a bit more subtle in gaining what I require.

“Not shocked. Surprised, more like. Certainly you are not the first to come here wanting to dive into the more unforgiving of sins. Unhappy wives, lonely widows, doomed spinsters. Why not spend a night dancing with the devil ?”

“I don’t believe the devil would have rebuffed me”.

“I am too familiar with temptation, vice, and addiction. I do not gamble at my own tables. I do not drink of my own spirits. I do not lounge upon my own ottomans. Until this moment, I have never waltzed upon my own floor”.

I offer him a small, tentative smile. “So you are open to making exceptions”.

“It would appear so”.

Laughter nearly erupts from me. It has been too long since I have had a good laugh. “You don’t have to sound so disgruntled”.

“I’m curious. Have you ever been told that you are beautiful ?”

“So many times that the word has lost all meaning”. I sigh.

“Did you marry for love ?”

“I did not”.

“He does not satisfy you ?”

“Can a woman be satisfied ?”

“With proper bedding. And a proper bedding begins with seduction”. With the slightest of pressure from his hand splayed over my lower back, he urges me nearer until his legs are brushing against my skirts and my toes are coming dangerously close to his boots, but I trust him not to step on them, to not to send me hobbling home.

“You have been seducing me since you approached me in the corner”.

One side of his mouth hitches up. “Before that, I would wager”.

I smile fully then; I can’t help it. “Your earlier strutting through the gaming floor ? Was that for my benefit ?”

“You noticed me, didn’t you ?” He shakes his head as a small self-deprecating grin forms. “You are making me break all my rules”.

“You don’t strike me as one who adheres to rules”.

“I am striving to turn over a new leaf. To become respectable”. He says with the most cheeky of grins.

I half roll my eyes. “Respectability is overrated”.

“And you know that because you are so disreputable ?”

“I know that because I want to be so disreputable. l have observed propriety my entire

life. It grows wearisome”.

He sighs. “l have another rule, sweetheart. I don’t bed married women. That one I have never broken”.

“Fortunately for me, then, I'm a widow.” Not so fortunate really. If I was not a widow, I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have sought him out.

I hadn’t meant to confess the truth of my marital status, but even if he had read my husband, Randy’s, obituary in the newspaper, it is unlikely he would associate the Alpha with me, for surely he would not expect a woman only three days a widow to come so soon to a house of sin. Still, the less he knows or suspects about me, the better.

I do not know why I find myself telling him things

I shouldn’t. I had learned early on, from the cradle, to hold my thoughts to myself and never reveal my true opinions or feelings, and yet here I am blathering on like a fishmonger’s wife who wouldn’t soon find herself facing consequences.

On the other hand, where is the harm in what I have revealed ? Even if he manages to discern exactly who I am, he doesn't have the power to interfere with my plans. Besides, I am accustomed to having my way in most things. It is a privilege of my rank, and I have discerned that I want him. Why is he playing so hard to get ? It is my experience that men are ruled by their baser instincts and nothing is baser than the need to see to their c***s. Why is he being so blasted difficult ? Why hadn’t he immediately escorted me to a darkened room and lifted my skirts ? More irritating than his apparent lack of

interest is the sympathy that plunges into the depths of his blue eyes.

“How long ?” He asks.

“lt’s of no consequence”.

“Do you miss him ?”

At that particular moment, I miss the silence of him, the fact that he had never bombarded me with questions in an attempt to discern every facet of me.

“Have you no interest in bedding me ?” My voice holds my impatience. I have come here for a purpose, and he is delaying it.

His long fingers splays against my back, dig in, and claim as he brings me scandalously nearer, until his thigh is practically nestled between both of mine and I fear his feet might become entangled in the hem of my skirts. But apparently he is too light-footed for that disaster to occur, knows precisely what he is about, has calculated

exactly how closely he can hold me without causing any mishap. Or perhaps it is simply at this moment we seem to be one and the same.

Strange how I feel as though I am sharing a familiarity far more intimate than anything I have ever experienced in a bed.

“You deserve better than to just be bedded”. His low voice thrums through every nerve ending I possess. “You warrant a scandalous and thorough seduction”.

His eyes lock with mine, offering a promise I do not know if I have the courage to accept. I can’t draw in a single breath. Suddenly coming here seem an incredibly reckless venture, yet in spite of the pounding of my heart, which I am rather certain he can feel traveling all the way to my fingertips, I can’t bring myself to break free and

leave. I am all of twenty-five and not once, in all my years upon this earth, has I ever been thoroughly seduced. I can’t even claim to have been slightly seduced.

The final strains of the tune wafts on the air, lingering like the scent of a flower whose blossom has closed up for the night. We cease our movements, but he doesn’t loosen his hold one iota.

“You don’t know me”. My voice sounds raw, as though I have not used it in ages. “You can’t know what I warrant”.

“Every woman merits more than a bedding. Each is deserving of seduction. All that say,

I suspect I know you far better than you think”.

I am grateful the mask hides my reaction, that he can’t see how much I long for someone to truly know me, to be aware of my thoughts, fears, and dreams.

“As for your earlier question regarding my interest in bedding you, rest assured it is strong and powerful. If you were to turn your attention to another man here, I might, regretfully, find myself having to kill him”.

I am remarkably ashamed of the satisfaction that sweeps through me because he might be jealous of another.

Another tune started up, and he is again gliding me over the floor. I have danced with men more accomplished and polished when it comes to the waltz, but it had all been merely movement and motion, adhering to the formalities of the steps. His style is more feral, raw, and alluring. He holds my gaze as though to look away would signal defeat. Our proximity to each other is scandalously close, not that it truly matters here. There is an earthiness, a primitiveness to the way all the couples move in tandem around the

ballroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see how each of the other gents looks at his partner as though she hung the moon and the stars.

But Aaron Tempest has perfected his regard to reflect that of a man truly smitten. Even if only for a moment, the length of a dance, a woman feels treasured. I feel treasured. I hadn’t expected that tonight, I don’t want it. It makes me feel weak when it is imperative that I remain strong in order to do what needs to be done.

“Odd that you wouldn’t remove your gloves, that you rejected the notion of my bare hands touching yours when you are here in hopes that my palms will caress all of you”. He says quietly. “Imagine how much nicer this would be without the silk separating us”.

Suddenly, I imagine it, wildly and provocatively. I rather fear my heart, which continues to beat erratically, might very well give out before the night is done. My death would certainly serve no one, least of all myself, well. If anything, it would merely compound the guilt I will take with me to heaven.

If that is where the angels carry me, although it is quite likely after tonight’s escapade that they would merely dump me in hell. Which I had feared until an hour ago. Now, however, I find some comfort in the prospect of arriving there, because I am quite certain it will be his final destination as well. I can imagine him laughing uproariously, delighted by his surroundings, and

driving the devil to distraction. I rather want to witness all that.

“One can be bedded without removing all of one’s garments”. I inform him as haughtily and learnedly as possible. My husband had certainly never required all garments be removed, so exactly how is Aaron Tempest going to caress all of me ? With those palms. The one that cradles my hand as though it is a fragile bird. The one that covers a good bit of my lower back.

His grin is saucy and daring. “Where’s the fun in that ?”

I almost ask if there is fun to be had in bedding at all. For me, it has always been more of a chore, a duty, a requirement of marriage. I am here hoping for something more but is at a bit of a loss as to exactly what that more might consist of. Caressing bare skin. Caressing. Bare. Skin. The words seems trapped in my mind as though they are riding on a roundabout.

From the caressing and holding he has done so far, I can tell his hands are roughened by his labors, whatever those might entail. But they are also clean, well manicured. He haa a scar that runs along the side of his forefinger and onto the back of his hand. Thin, raised, white. He has had it for a time. I wonder how it has come to be.

Will his seduction involve the exchange of more stories ? I rather believe so, rather hope so.

The music again ceases playing, a signal for others to change partners, while he simply continues to hold me, waiting patiently for when we can begin moving again. In a pack ballroom, three dances with the same man would be scandalous. Here it is nothing at all. I am neither concerned about it nor worried over my reputation.

“How many more dances ?” I ask.

“One”.

“And then ?”

“I’m going to kiss you until your knees grow weak”.