He sat back on his heels, cast a fleeting glance at his palm, and dismissed the bubbling redness so that he could turn that vicious scowl back on me.

“You’re intent on continuing with this plan?” His jaw clenched around every word. “You wish to torture me.”

“Is it torture watching me like this?”

I hadn’t stopped touching myself, my fingers stirring the slick juices around my opening. It felt nice, as it should have. I’d done this often enough over the past two years, alone in my chamber, wishing for companionship while thinking only of my husband.

But this time, I didn’t have to fashion him in my mind. The sheer scope of muscle laid bare before me made my hand stroke faster, harder, squelching damp, turgid flesh and infusing the space with the sounds of my wetness.

He remained on his knees, his perfect arse resting on his heels as he strained forward, nostrils widening as if scenting the air.

Powerfully built in a way that could only be considered desirable, he was a beast in his prime. His shoulders had deep indentations where sturdy bones met thick tendons. His hands made lethal fists on his thighs, his chest rising and falling, arms tensing, every inch of him smooth and hard-surfaced.

Beneath the thinly woven fabric of his breeches, he was long and contoured, fully aroused and well-endowed, larger than any man I had ever felt between my legs.

A wash of memories rushed through me, funneling heat from my chest to my belly and lower, where fat slicks of moisture gathered and leaked out. It had been a long time since I’d been this aroused, the evidence streaking my fingers and thighs and holding his rapt attention.

So much so, he didn’t seem to notice how he was rubbing his hands on his breeches, scratching his itchy palms. A sure sign he was suffering from more than just a neglected erection.

I paused my stroking and drew a salty finger into my mouth.

He froze, tracking the movement as if carried away in an ecstatic trance. The muscles in his jaw locked, his eyes glowing like cauldrons of molten ore.

Then he blinked. His fingers flew to the ties on his breeches, one hand stroking his bulge through the fabric, as he attempted to free it.

“I wouldn’t do that.” I lowered my arm.

“You want to stop me from touching myself? Shackle my hands, you heartless minx. I dare you.”

“No shackles needed. You see, there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who can eat oranges.” I pulled off my shirt and stood before him, naked. “And those who can’t touch them.”

His palms were already blistering like the sores of syphilis. Except his ailment wasn’t contagious. It was strange.