Page 27 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Simply refuse to cooperate
I t still wasn’t Tuesday.
Oliver rolled over to bury his face into the pillow. The downy softness muffled his groan as he angled his hip to accommodate an erection that refused to abate. Another groan escaped at the sensation of smooth linens against desperate flesh.
And he was feeling nothing short of desperation. Years of discipline and self-restraint were fraying under a barrage of dreams.
The sheets weren’t nearly as soft as Miss Martin’s hands had been in his sleep. The warm cocoon he’d made under the covers didn’t compare to the imagined heat of her mouth and welcoming, wet body.
Lack of firsthand experience didn’t equal lack of imagination. Unfortunately. At this point, being ignorant of what awaited him on his wedding night would have been a relief.
Relief. The word repeated in his mind. Oliver sighed and knew that today would be the day he caved to the demands of his body.
“Prince, you may want to leave, kind sir.” The kitten grumbled at him before slipping through the bedcurtains. A moment later, Oliver heard a soft thump as Prince jumped to the floor and padded away.
He rolled over, one hand already smoothing across the head of his cock, where a bead of moisture waited, and he smirked. His cock was weeping in gratitude.
After years of a schedule, there was a routine to this ritual.
Certain scenarios or movements affected his pleasure in predictable ways.
Most of the time, efficiency was key. After all, this wasn’t about making love to a partner.
It was executing a biological function. He had no reason to draw things out.
Which is why he’d never imagined a specific woman while pursuing release.
However, now that he’d taken himself in hand—despite it being Saturday—it felt like that one action removed the usual rules.
Which only confirmed his long-held suspicion that breaking one rule led to anarchy.
The newfound instinctual part of him that only woke up when he thought of Miss Martin, stretched lazily, knowing it would finally be heard.
To let himself become motivated by uncontrollable primal urges rather than logic wouldn’t be a simple slippery slope.
Instead, it would be a runaway coach driven by Hedone herself, racing directly toward chaos.
If chaos came in the form of wild blond curls and a laugh that made a room feel more inviting, would that be such a bad thing? Just for a little while.
As his mind ached to slip back into the dream he’d just left, he chose to ignore the potential consequences of loosening his iron control.
Constance—he couldn’t think of her as Miss Martin when allowing himself this pleasure—smiled in welcome and opened her arms to him.
His cock grew impossibly harder as the fantasy took hold.
It wasn’t Tuesday, and the woman in his mind had a face. All his rules might be gone for the moment, but this was an isolated incident, he promised himself. Tomorrow would bring control. For now, Oliver took his time exploring Constance within the safe confines of his mind.
Much like the real woman, Dream Constance talked a lot.
Delicious words, demands, directions, all interspersed with sounds that would make his cock downright unruly if he ever heard them in real life.
After all, his fingers might not know precisely how soft Constance Martin’s skin was, and he’d never tasted a single part of her body, but Oliver knew her voice.
The sound of her was intimate and familiar as she told him how to best please her.
Oliver’s breath sawed in and out of his chest while unintelligible sounds that might have started as words fell from his lips.
As his hand stroked and squeezed, Constance murmured in his ear, urging him to enjoy her, to let her enjoy him, to stay in this bed and never leave her.
He tried to make it last—another rule he’d break just this once.
But God, that voice was too real, and his body too eager after days of denial.
Tension coiled low and hot. In his mind, she clenched around him and they flew off that cliff into pleasure together.
Oliver’s limbs were languid as he lay there, staring up at the canopy over his bed. He closed his eyes and sighed. One hand smoothed over the bed beside him. A stab of disappointment when his fingers met nothing but empty sheets alerted him to the action.
“Ridiculous. Absolute madness,” he said. It was over. Purged from his body and his brain. Things could return to the way they’d always been.
Except, that damnable part of his anatomy jumped to attention almost two hours later, when the voice from his dream floated down the hall to his breakfast room. Prince’s ears swiveled toward the sound, so Oliver knew he wasn’t imagining it.
Roberts appeared at the door. “Pardon me, milord. Miss Martin is here to visit Prince.”
The butler’s gaze settled on the chair beside Oliver’s, and his face creased into an indulgent smile.
Oliver glanced down at the kitten sitting on the padded seat. Before him was a small porcelain dish holding a formerly-feral-cat-sized portion of kippers. The tips of Prince’s ears were barely visible above the edge of the table.
“Show her in.” Oliver motioned for the footman to set one more place setting, just in case Constance—no, Miss Martin—wished to join him.
Thoughts of Constance, with her deliciously filthy mouth and soft skin, needed to stay in his bedroom.
In the real world, she was Miss Martin, a hardworking bookseller and beloved family member of his best friend.
Oh, but the way his spine arched off the bed this morning from the power of the release she’d inspired—
When Roberts arrived a second time, now with a blonde in tow, Oliver rose.
Carefully holding the serviette in front of him in a way he prayed seemed casual, rather than a blatant confession of his burgeoning erection, he tried to forget the things he’d done to this woman in his mind a short time ago.
“Miss Martin. We are enjoying some breakfast. Would you care to join us?” Oliver motioned to the cat in silent explanation for his use of the word we .
God, when she smiled, that dimple made it damned near impossible to look away from her mouth. Pink and plump, her lips were the stuff of dreams.
Quite literally, in his case. Oliver gripped the cloth napkin tighter.
A footman placed a teacup beside the dishes and silverware on the other side of Prince. “That’s very kind of you, milord. Perhaps I’ll join you for a cup of tea, if you don’t mind. The sky is gray and spitting mad as usual, and the wet is already finding its way through my boots.”
Oliver knew the precise moment she truly took notice of the way Prince sat in his own chair with his own place setting, because her smile transformed into something altogether otherworldly.
With a surprised laugh, Miss Martin grinned at Oliver, making warmth creep into his cheeks.
Delight shone from her features, turning her blue eyes a shade he had difficulty defining.
It wasn’t the blue of a summer sky, or the gray-toned blue of the sea.
It might be closer to a—“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Waxing poetic about her eyes? Who was he becoming?
Realizing he’d sworn aloud, Oliver prepared for her to take him to task about his language.
However, she ignored him entirely and knelt beside Prince’s chair. “You’ve grown used to him, haven’t you? Even when that big man curses, you know you’re safe.” Scratching the cat behind his ear, she peered up at Oliver. “Well done, milord. You’ve won him over.”
Since her position put her directly at crotch level, Oliver resumed his seat and cleared his throat.
Unfortunately, no words came to him. In fact, the normally organized and neatly categorized brain he’d cherished all his life was devoid of everything but his recent dreams of her.
Instead of answering and embarrassing everyone involved, he gently stroked the soft fur behind Prince’s other ear, then smiled when the kitten’s purr rumbled between them.
“I’d forgotten what a loud purr he has.” Miss Martin shifted to perch on the chair before the extra place setting.
Pouring a cup of tea from the pot in front of the cat, she spoke to Prince.
“You don’t mind if I steal a bit of your tea, do you, my darling?
” The cat purred, giving her a slow, adoring blink. “Thank you. That’s most generous.”
It seemed the two of them could continue in this vein for the foreseeable future, and part of Oliver wanted to let them. Just to hear her converse with a cat and see what topics this unpredictable woman chose to discuss.
“Thank you again for your insight. He’s settled in nicely. The servants dote on him.”
She pointed at the porcelain dish on the cat’s chair. “I don’t think the servants are the only ones doting on him. It makes me happy to see how well he’s cared for.”
“Is that your only reason for calling? To ensure I wasn’t abusing the cat?”
She shrugged one shoulder, and it struck him how compact she was.
With her halo of curls, large personality, and boisterous way of simply existing, Constance Martin took up more space in his mind than she did at the breakfast table.
Slender shoulders, delicate fingers wrapping around the handle of the cup…
how had he never realized how petite she was?
Generous curves abounded on a small frame.
She was a pint-size tornado of a woman. The idiom about a storm in a teapot came to mind, but she embodied the opposite of its meaning.
She wasn’t a fuss blown out of proportion.
Instead, she was a teacup-size tempest. The most literal interpretation of the words. Small, unpredictable, and the perfect size for his hands. Well, perhaps not his hands specifically. Some other lucky bastard’s hands.