“Wait, I haven’t finished explaining the rules of the game. The winner of each throw must choose the item of clothing the loser must remove. Otherwise, minx, I suspect you will take off a single shoe or a ribbon, and then the game will go on for far too long.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Marissa said. “Nevertheless I am a little anxious to know what you are going to choose for me to remove.”
He took his time deciding. His gaze traveled leisurely over her, increasing her tension, until she felt quite light-headed.
“Your jewelry,” he spoke at last.
She reached up to touch her necklace, feeling the pearls warm beneath her fingers. “Which piece of my jewelry?”
“All of it. Jewelry counts as one item.”
“Oh?” She considered arguing but decided to save it until the game had progressed further. Slowly, Marissa began to remove her necklace. She placed the pearls on the table and then added her earrings and her two rings, finally unclipping her bracelet and setting it down on top of the pile.
She’d expected him to ask her to take off an item of her clothing, and been relieved, though slightly confused, by his choice. But now, without her jewelry, she felt uncomfortable and strangely naked, as if she was improperly dressed. It made her understand just how important a woman’s jewel box was as part of her imaginary armor, adding to her self-confidence when she appeared before others.
Valentine met her eyes, then let his gaze take in the nakedness of her neck and earlobes and hands. “Thank you,” was all he said, as he picked up the dice and threw again.
The numbers were six and a one. Marissa threw a five and a four, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Me this time,” she said, a lilt of anticipation in her voice.
She tapped a fingertip to her chin, pretending to deliberate, but she’d already decided what she was going to ask him to remove. From the first moment she’d seen Valentine without his shirt she’d been struck by the sheer beauty of his body. She wanted him naked as soon as possible.
“Your jacket.”
He made no comment, merely removing the item and dropping it on the floor beside him. His shirt was silk and her fingers itched t
o caress it, but that was against the rules of the game, and she turned back to the dice with a renewed determination to win.
But it was Valentine who won the next two throws.
First, he asked her to take off her shoes and, second, to remove her pins and the ebony comb that was holding up her hair. She set her evening slippers on the floor beside her chair and then reached up to begin dismantling her hair. Without the comb the long tresses fell heavily about her shoulders, curling against her back and the low décolletage of her violet silk evening dress, and with each pin she removed her hair became wilder.
Instinctively he stretched out his hand, as if to capture a tress of dark hair, but stopped himself, clenching his fingers into a fist before drawing it back. “No touching,” he said, reminding them both. “Not yet.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Not yet? What if I want you to touch me?”
“Touching means you forfeit the game. Are you prepared to do that at this early stage? Do you want to lose, Marissa?”
“No, I want to win.” She spoke with conviction. Yes, she wanted to win. She wanted Valentine in her power, naked before her.
His eyes delved into hers. “I want to win, too,” he said.
Marissa won the next four throws. First she had him take off his silk shirt, so that his skin gleamed in the candlelight, while the muscular curves and hollows of his body bunched and rippled every time he moved. Then she had him remove his neck cloth, because it ruined the effect dangling about his neck all on its own. Thirdly she asked for him to take off his shoes and then, lastly, his belt. She planned to get rid of the trousers on the next throw, but her run of luck ran out and this time Valentine won.
“Your dress,” he said with satisfaction, and sat back and folded his arms, as if preparing for the ensuing show.
Marissa laughed at him, disguising her anxiety as best she could. She’d never undressed before a man and although this was Valentine, the man she’d already shared a great deal with, it was far more nerve-wracking than she’d imagined.
To begin with there were the hooks at the back. After struggling with them inelegantly for several moments she gave up. “You will have to help me,” she said. “Surely it won’t count as touching if you only touch the hooks and the cloth and not my skin?”
He bowed his head in acquiescence.
Marissa went around the table and stood with her back to him, and waited as she felt the tug of the hooks being released. The dress began to loosen about her, and she put up her hand to prevent it slipping down over her bosom to her waist. When he’d done she turned to face him.
It was difficult to read his expression. He was keeping himself very much under control. Suddenly she knew she wanted to see his will crumble. She wanted to see him vulnerable. That was what winning meant to her. Having Valentine in the palm of her hand.
She allowed the cloth to slide through her hands, slowly, uncovering the lacy top of her chemise where it cupped her breasts. The evening dress caught at her waist, and she bent to release the ties, aware that doing so meant he could see the full swell of her bosom. The dress slithered to her feet, and calmly she stepped out of it, returning to her chair in her petticoats and undergarments and her stockinged feet.
Marissa won the next throw and was finally able to watch him stand and unbutton his trousers. He pushed them down over his trim hips and muscular thighs. Much to her disappointment, he was wearing a tight-fitting undergarment, but as it really was very tight she soon reconciled herself.