She Wasn’t Like All Those Other Women

She Wasn’t Like All Those Other Women





Because she was different. Like, this girl wasn’t like all the rest. Not the same, you see.

The ballroom was twinkling with candelabra light and sparkling with music that she didn’t dance to. He stared at her, as she stood half in shadow. She was staring at the dancers, a small ghost of a smile on her flawless skin. She had a doll’s face, beautiful and symmetrical, but there was something else there. Something not quite proper. He could see it, though he doubted she thought anyone could detect it. But he knew that quality; he’d seen in hundreds of women before.

Taking another glass of champagne, he studied her. Sipping, he exhaustively catalogued her appearance so that in several paragraphs, readers would easily be able to picture her garments coming off, her face writhing in new-found ecstasy.

Her tiny hands folded across the billows of her rich sapphire blue skirts, positioned above her sex, prim. But he could see her toe tapping from under her dress, sense her wanton desire to move her body with abandon. Her curls were a riot of rioting bouncing tendrils arrayed in saucy splendor around her creamy throat and bodice.

And her bodice. Whooo, baby. The details involved in that. We’re talking pages of ink spilled. His trousers tightened. He was going to spill himself like a schoolboy if he thought about it too much.

He imagined there was probably a freckle atop her left breast that he would end up fixating upon for at least three more chapters before he managed to use his rake’s wiles to divest her of her chemise and shift and smallclothes or whatever the fuck the author of this regency novel is using for lingerie or underpants. Because, who gave a good goddamn, really, what you called them. Certainly a world-weary rogue like himself didn’t care. Certainly not a roue like him who fantasized, slowly and deliberately, about ripping her dress off her luscious curves and not caring when she protested and claimed it had been her favorite dress.

He would shower her will a million favorite dresses, he would. Once he’d gotten inside her, though. Money meant nothing if he couldn’t have her.

Dammit, he had to have her. In every way. Because she wasn’t like any of the other full-breasted, tiny-waisted, supernaturally beautiful ladies he’d known and bedded and tossed aside. Not like any other ethereal creature who would let her hair down where he could rub his beard-shadowed face into it and delight in how it smelled of violets or peaches or cinnamon. Something old-timey, but something he’d never encountered before. Or something that reminded him of his Dear Old Nan or the fields around his family’s lost estate or the sprigs of mint that grew wild on his dead brother’s grave.

Slowly, his eyes luxuriously scouring every detail of flesh, he walked toward her.



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