Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 52 - Fifty Two

Carcel simply stood there, his arms now at his sides, his hands fisted. He was, she realized, a man on the very precipice of... something. He was breathing, a little too quickly. And he was, as she had so clinically, rudely, observed, very, very aroused.

He was caught, too.

He had to break the silence.

His voice, when he spoke, was a low, strained, and utterly resigned growl.

"You are... researching," he stated. It was not a question. It was a fact. "And this... this is the next ’part’... of your research."

Ines could not speak. She could only nod, a tiny, jerky movement, not knowing what the next demonstration would be.

He let out a long, slow, shaky breath. It was the sound of a man surrendering.

"Then..." he said, his voice rough. "Learn."

He took her hand.

Not her hand with the papers. Her other hand. The one that had been dangling, uselessly, at her side.

She did not resist. She was frozen. He simply guided her. He lifted her small, pale, trembling hand. He did not move his body. He brought her hand to him and he pressed her palm, her flat, soft, innocent palm, against the hard, straining, wool fabric of his trousers.

"This is a man’s part." He said.

"Ah!"

The exclamation was torn from her, a sharp, shocked, involuntary squeak. Her eyes went impossibly wide.

It’s so hard, her mind whispered, her inner voice filled with wonder. It’s... it’s like a rock. Like a hot, smooth... rock.

She did not pull her hand away.

Her curiosity, her life-long, burning, writer’s curiosity, annihilated her shame. This was what the novels never truly described.

Carcel did not move. He was a statue of agonized, iron-willed control. His hand, which had guided hers, had fallen away, leaving her to her... exploration.

Ines, her mind now a whirl of focus, did the only logical thing she could think of.

She crouched down.

Carcel let out a sound. It was a strangled, choked, desperate sound, as if she had just, with her simple, curious movement, punched him in the gut.

She was now at eye level with "it." She crouched on the library floor, as if she were examining a fascinating, new, and very large mushroom.

She was still touching it. Tentatively. Her fingers, no longer flat, began to feel it, to examine its shape, right through the straining fabric.

Her other hand, in a gesture of unconscious, scholarly habit, came up to her chin. She rested her chin on her fist, her brow furrowed in deep, serious concentration.

Is this... is this its normal size? she wondered, her mind racing. Or is this... ’aroused’?

She had to know.

"Can it... can it really become this hard?" she asked, her voice a low, fascinated murmur. She was not asking him. She was asking the universe.

Carcel’s voice was a hoarse, pained gasp. He was gripping the edge of the desk behind him, his knuckles white. "Only... only when aroused."

"What about normally?" she asked, her gaze still fixed on the subject.

He was silent for a moment. He was clearly in pain. "It is... a bit smaller," he finally bit out. "And a bit... softer."

Fascinating.

Her hand became bolder. She squeezed it, just a little, her fingers trying to understand its... its structure. Her other hand, the one at her chin, began to scratch, lightly, at her jawline.

"How could it change like this?" she whispered, in awe.

She rubbed it. Again. Her palm, moving in a slow, curious circle , trying to understand the texture, the heat.

"Fascinating!" her mind sang. "How could a person’s body be so different? A man’s body... it is truly amazing."

She was so lost in her marvel, so deep in her research for Doris and Stefan, that she was not prepared for the sound that tore from the man in front of her.

It was a sharp, hissing, intake of breath.

"Ines."

His voice. It was not a whisper. It was not a growl. It was a hoarse, desperate, warning.

She looked up.

His face was pale. His eyes were squeezed shut. A light sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He looked, she thought, as if he were in profound, terrible pain.

"Yes?" she replied, her voice small, her hand still resting, innocently, on the source of his distress. She pushed a stray, interfering curl of her hair behind her ear, to get a better, clearer, view of his pained expression.

"Ines," he said again, his voice cracking. He opened his eyes. They were black, and they were pleading. "If you... if you touch it like that... if you rub it... it will get even harder. And bigger."

Ines’s hand, the one on his trousers, went still.

She looked down at her own hand. Then, she looked at him.

The evidence, the proof of his words, was... impressive.

"Impressive," she said, her voice low, her interest piqued to a new, extraordinary level.

She looked up again, her mind moving, connecting the dots. This... this is the ’part.’ It is ’pulsating’ and ’almost bursting,’ just like in the novels. I...

She wanted to see it.

It was the next logical step. It was the only way to be sure. Her descriptions, her writing, depended on it. She could not write about something she had only felt through... wool.

She opened her mouth to ask but she hesitated.

This was... this was different. This was not a question about "kissing." This was not a "touch." This was... this was a more sensitive topic. A forbidden door.

She looked at his face. He was in pain. He was her teacher. But he was also... a Duke. Would this... would this be offensive?

Her curiosity, her desperate need to know, won. It was a battle, but it won. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She had to ask.

"Carcel..." she began, her voice a small, hesitant, stammering whisper.

He waited, his entire body rigid.

"Um... if... if it’s... o...okay with you..."

She took a shaky breath, her gaze, wide, innocent, and terrifyingly serious, meeting his.

"Can... can I see it?"