The Corrupt Comte by Edie Harris Page A

closed for a brief moment, but instead of lowering his mouth to hers for a scalding kiss, as she’d hoped he might, he drew back, pushing himself up until he sat back on his heels. Straddling her like this, he was a giant of a man, and the sight of those broad shoulders set her squirming again. Arousal pulsed between her thighs, low and liquid, her hips moving of their own accord.
    He stared down at her, one brow arched. “Have you seen Sabien?”
    The abrupt change in subject threw her. “I d-don’t—”
    “Since the closet, have you seen Sabien?” His tone was cold, his English gruff.
    Irritation tickled in her chest. “Yes.” The lieutenant had approached her yesterday evening at a soirée, prodding her with curious politeness for information on what had transpired between the comte and herself. Their closet antics had evidently been the source of much speculation among those who’d been present in the parlor…which was when Claudia began to learn exactly who it was she’d permitted to kiss her and stroke her and give her pleasure.
    Where before she hadn’t been brave enough to ask, she now found the words, ignoring his current attempt at intimidation. “Are the rumors t-true?”
    He stilled above her. “So. You have heard about me.”
    Not so much heard as surmised. No one had asked if the comte had ravished her. It had been disconcerting, the number of both men and women who had approached her since that night, all eager to console her on what they assumed must have been a shamefully barren quarter hour of play. Most had said something along the lines of, “Well, his tastes don’t run to you,” followed by, “but that is no fault of yours!”
    In fact, people had been significantly kinder to her in the past two days than they had in the entire two weeks she’d been in Paris. By going in the closet with the comte , Claudia had earned herself a place inside the gossip circles for the first time in her life, making her privy to all sorts of talk instead of remaining the unfortunate subject of it.
    Claudia was not a stupid woman. She knew she hadn’t suddenly gained dozens of new friends, just as she knew enough to piece together what they were all ineffectually trying not to say: Gaspard Toussaint was a molly.
    But that simply didn’t make sense .
    She hadn’t bothered to correct others’ conclusions—to do so would require more than her typical monosyllabic attempts at conversation. But Claudia had wanted to tell them that, no, the comte had made an excellent go at ravishing her, and yes, he’d been quite enthusiastic about the process, showing no reticence concerning her gender whatsoever.
    How could they not see? She gazed up at him, taking in the wholly masculine appeal of his visage and trying not to let her stare stray to the curve of his biceps straining against his coat sleeves. His clothes were a fine distraction, but he was so very…male. And should someone so very male indeed be attracted to his own gender, one had merely to glance at the comte ’s eyes and see the way he looked at a woman—at her, Claudia—to know in which direction his lusts lay.
    His eyes told her that he wanted to eat her for breakfast, have her for tea, and gorge himself on her for dessert.
    She hesitated. “You’re not what they s-s-say.”
    “How do you know this?” His knees squeezed her hips ever so slightly, and he reached down and traced a gentle fingertip along the center of her chest. Starting at the dip at the base of her throat and sliding down the valley between her breasts, his finger halted at the neckline of her nightgown. He tugged, pulling the fabric taut over her breasts as the warm pad of his index finger pressed against the base of her sternum.
    That was all it took—one touch, and she was desperate for him, unable to breathe as longing subsumed her. It was the same as in the closet, when she realized she was so starved for human touch that she could be made a slave to the person lavishing