Page 29

Violet pulled her hand away from Alistair, her mind snapping back to reality from whatever dream state she’d been in.

She remembered the look of surprise on his face when he’d felt the rough skin on her palm the first time at the Somerville dinner party, and how he’d dropped her hand as if it burned him.

She wouldn’t be able to bear that kind of rejection again, not now.

“Don’t hide from me, Violet,” he said.

“I’m not.”

But her hand was closed hard in a fist anyway.

“This won’t work if you don’t trust me.”

“What won’t work?” She understood the mechanics of copulation and had witnessed the breeding of stallions in her father’s stables. She doubted that the mares gave any thought to trust during those moments.

Alistair reached for her clenched fist and brought it to his mouth. He let his tongue nudge gently into the tightness of her closed fingers.

“Pleasure,” he said and blew a cool stream of air over the place his tongue had just lathed. “Your hands are beautiful. Don’t deny them their pleasure. Show them to me.”

She shook her head no. “They’re not beautiful. They’re hard and callused and ugly.”

He nipped at her closed fingers. “I beg to differ,” he said. “Give me a finger. Just one poor, neglected finger.”

Her fist unclenched as if her fingers themselves had heard his words and wanted what he was offering them. He gently took her index finger and placed its tip in his mouth. And then the man began to suck.

Good God , she’d never felt anything like it.

It was as if every nerve ending in her whole body was concentrated in that single fingertip.

He flicked his tongue across the nail bed, and she shivered.

And then he gently, methodically, lathed the entirety of her digit with his tongue and scraped his teeth gently across the flesh until she moaned with pleasure.

When he had thoroughly debauched that finger, he took it out of his mouth and held it in his hand.

“Every part of you is perfect, Violet. So perfect I hardly know what to do with it. Give me another.”

He worked his way through her ten digits until she was vibrating. “I had no idea,” she whispered, “that fingers could feel this way.”

He glanced up at her with that wicked, boyish grin. “I believe you have some idea of what fingers can do,” he said and moved his own digits down to the inside of her thigh and then up, up to the place within her that was throbbing with need and want and desire.

He knew how to pleasure her now, and he worked quickly, one finger slipped inside her, his palm cupping the sensitive mound and pressing into it. It took only moments for Violet to begin shuddering as wave after wave of exhilaration shook her body.

And then he removed his finger from inside her, put it to his mouth and sucked it again, groaning as he did.

“You taste magnificent,” he said. “Better than anything else I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

Good god.

“I’d give every pound I have,” he said as he finished licking every last drop of her from his hand, “to know what that look on your face means.”

“Copulation,” she whispered, thinking of the horses mating and her scientific understanding of sexual congress, “is entirely different from pleasure.”

His laugh was low and hungry. “Not if you’re doing it right, love.”

Violet sighed against the soft, downy pillow. “I like pleasure,” she said. “I didn’t know I would.”

“I knew you would.” He moved his body down the length of hers. “You only deny yourself what you really want. Don’t deny yourself this.”

He put his tongue inside her where his finger had just been. Gently at first, as her nerves were still raw, but then pressing and licking and sucking and lathing harder as her excitement once again mounted.

When she was writhing and moaning below him, he laid his body down on top of her and pressed his hard cock into her opening. It felt delicious there. Exactly what she wanted.

Until…she panicked.

She couldn’t end up pregnant and alone like Jess. She knew their differences, of course. Her life was from a world apart from Jess’s, so much so that even if she ended her days in disgrace with an illegitimate child, the chances of Violet Goodwin ever going hungry were slim to none.

But she wouldn’t take risks with her body either, no matter her advantages in life. She understood only too well how a woman became pregnant.

“What’s wrong,” Alistair asked as he felt her jolt beneath him.

Hell’s teeth.

He’d gone too fast. He’d rushed her.

He removed his weight from her so she could sit, leaning back to give her space.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Violet.”

“I want to,” she said. “But I won’t end up like Jess.”

He reached out and ran his hand along her jaw. “I would never allow that to happen, my love. I would never abandon you.”

“You have French letters?” she asked. “From your…” she faltered but pushed on. “From your travels?”

Alistair raised that eyebrow at her. French letters were the provenance of whores and sailors. Of course, he had some. He generally had one soaked and ready in case he went to a brothel. Not that he’d had cause to use one since he met Violet.

But he was certain he still had one prepared somewhere. He’d seen enough syphilis and pox in fellow sailors to be vigilant.

“I’ll just have a look, love.” He rose from the bed.

Violet’s heart stilled at the word, love.

She’d noticed when he’d said it before, but she’d been too distracted by the sight of him standing naked before her to concentrate on it.

Now it felt different, more weighted. But she pushed it from her mind because Alistair had risen from the bed and stalked across the room in search of the contraception she’d requested.

He was magnificent when he moved. Graceful like the cougar she’d seen once steal a sheep in the Hudson River Valley back home. But he was darker than that giant cat, especially in the dimly lit room. His sable head of hair made him look for all the world like a panther.

A parlor panther , she mused and let loose a little laugh, causing him to turn to her.

“Do I amuse you, Miss Goodwin?” he asked, finding what he searched for and returning to the bed, French letter in hand.

“No.” She cocked her head at him. “Did you have that already prepared?”

“Would it bother you if I said yes?”

Would it? It shouldn’t.

Violet had no claim over Alistair. But it did bother her, nonetheless. “It would,” she admitted. “But I am glad to know you’ve protected yourself.”

He crawled onto the bed next to her.

“Violet, no one who came before you matters. At all. They were all the same, and you, my love, are different. Now help me tie this on.”

His words recalled the conversation they’d had at the Waverly Ball, before they’d gone out to the gardens. Her cheeks flushed with the erotic memory, and she reached forward, toward him.

“Show me what to do,” she said, and he placed his hand over hers, tight against his cock that grew harder and longer under their joint touch.

“Harder,” he grunted, and she squeezed him and worked him the way his fingers urged her to, up and down his length until he was shaking beneath her touch.

“Now put it on,” he said, and she helped him roll the sheep’s skin over his hard cock before neatly tying its strings into a bow.

“You look very pretty, Lord Alistair,” she said, with a final caress on his hard tip.

He grinned. “Not half as pretty as you do, Miss Goodwin. Now lay down, Violet. There is more pleasure to be had.”

And then his covered prick was pressing into the soft mound of her thighs and her hips were thrusting up toward his, as if they’d never paused their lovemaking at all.

She thrilled at the feel of him there, so close to her body, the sheath allowing her to relax into the experience without worry, so that before long, she was pressing her hips into him, trying to fit him into her.

“Are you ready, Violet?” he asked, and her breathy “yes” made him press his forehead to hers. “You know what happens next?”

“I do,” she said.

She got more of him. She wanted more—more of the way her body felt alive when he touched her. More of the way her belly quivered under his sure hand. More of the way she felt precious and light when he cupped her face and kissed her. More of everything.

Alistair kissed her again and knew she could taste herself on his lips, could smell her own desire on his face. He shuddered at the thought of it making her wet and ready for him.

“Now,” she whispered, her voice breathy and low.

“Now, love?” he asked, kissing her again before she could answer.

He was already positioned on top of her, his hard thighs encasing her soft ones. His cock shamelessly teasing her, so close to where it was meant to fit into her, but not there yet. It leapt in anticipation of breaching her.

He could feel her push herself against him. Her body in accordance with his, as it so often seemed to be. He spread her thighs and slid himself into her with one sure movement.

She made a little noise at the pressure of him inside her.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and then, “more.”

He slipped out evenly and then back in again, further inside her this time. He was still for a moment while she adjusted her body underneath his.

And then she whispered “more,” and he moved again, groaning at the deliciousness of the moment.

And then Alistair Crawford lost all control. He entered her again, all the way up to the hilt, and his body began to move. Languidly at first, but then picking up speed as she wrapped her legs around his back and met his every movement with one of her own.

His hips knocked against hers, her body taking the full brunt of him, and the only sound was that of skin slapping against skin. It was the most wonderful, the most delicious, the most erotic thing he could imagine.

Until she closed her eyes and whispered, “more, Alistair,” and “now, Alistair,” and arched her back to him. He came back to reality just in time to hold himself still while she fell apart beneath him. And then he spilled himself into the French letter, his hips thrusting, her name on his lips.

“Violet,” he whispered, dazed, and reached for her.

She came to him willingly, her head resting on his, her body curled up beside him, as contented as a languid cat napping in the sunshine.

He held her close, his eyes drooping into slumber.

“Alistair?”

“Hmph?”

“Thank you for wearing the French letter.”

“Mmmhm,” he said sleepily.

“What did it feel like?”

“Go to sleep, Violet.”

“I will,” she said, and her fingers dragged through the dark hair on the arm that held her. But she didn’t. “Does copulation feel different for you than for me?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never had the experience of being you.”

A wicked grin passed over his face as a particularly erotic thought occurred to him. “Although, after we’re married, I’d be game to find a way to switch places. Now go to sleep.”

He closed his eyes and dropped into a contented, bliss-filled slumber.