Page 52 of The Lady is Trouble
Her hand dropped to his shoulder.Oh. Was this something she was supposed to conceal? She understood men touched themselves with predictable regularity. Were women not supposed to? Or not supposed to talk about it if they did? This predilection came from her indecent American roots, not the proper English ones. Out of step, as she had been in the ballroom two floors beneath them. As she had always been.
The pieces falling into place, she realized from his stone-faced expression that he’d misconstrued her statement. “I touch myself, Jules.”Dash it. She may as well tell him the whole of it what with her skirt wrapped around her waist and her naked breast pressed to the rough brocade of his waistcoat. “I touch myself…and I think of you when I do.”
He sighed gustily and dropped his brow to hers, his breath a harsh symphony over her cheek. His thumb resumed its exploration of her nipple, barely-there circles, which allowed only half her mind to focus on the conversation. She trembled beneath his touch, a groan of delight flowing like a sluggish river from her lips. After a moment, where the only sound was their labored struggle for air, he laughed raggedly when she wanted his mouth somewhere, doingsomething. She arched, nudging her sensitive core against his hard shaft.
Here, Julian,here.
“You don’t have to encourage me. I could come just by looking at you. In my trousers like a schoolboy. But I’m not going to let you go so easily,” he growled, then settled his mouth to hers and initiated a kiss which startled her with its force. He demanded, and she complied, meeting him with equal enthusiasm. She wanted him, begged for it, her plea taken in on his inhalation. The tender touch at her breast changed, his fingers twisting, a light pinch that drilled directly into the essence of her.
She nearly laughed at the thought: his touch was leagues above what she did to herself.
She finally understood how one could throw away everything for passion, make deals with God or the devil to possess it, as she would this very night. She wanted Julian enough to destroy reason, intention. This knowledge validated the scandals summarized in sitting rooms each season until she experienced true kinship. Sympathy. For her to feel so much when she couldn’t, in the end, have him...
“Don’t think. I do enough of that for the both of us,” he whispered against her lips, his hands journeying over her body. One higher: along the nape of her neck, a deliberate slide into her hair, where his fingers tangled in the strands, tilting her head back just enough to deepen the kiss. One lower: over bunched silk at her hip, across her belly. His palm felt as hot as a brand, the pads of his fingertips calloused, creating delicious friction. He nudged her thigh with his hip, hand going to the opening in her drawers, wide enough to allow access without untying the drawstring closure.
A minor amount of convenience in an otherwise absurd sartorial trap.
She whimpered when he began his exploration, his touch light, skilled, focused. Never again would she curse Julian’s devotion to detail. Hoping to help him, she inched forward as he stroked, circling the nub that provided the most pleasure. Once she got used to the pace, he changed it, slowed to a crawl, driving her to the brink. “Julian.” She broke the kiss, his name drawn out until it sounded like a hiss.
“So wet, so tempting.” His gaze found hers, his eyes stained smoke. He studied her like he would one of his paintings, his thumb pressing harder. His fingers sliding along her folds, delving, seeking.
“Inside.” Her head fell back, her body bowing like a strap of leather snapped between two fists. He caught her, his fingertips digging into her scalp. Her lids fluttered. Shecouldn’t. The way he touched her, the hungry look on his face.
She couldn’t gaze upon that and survive. If this were a battle, she would lose.
His lips trailed the nape of her neck, to the fleshy pad of her shoulder, to her waiting, wonderfully exposed breast. His mouth assaulted not just the nipple but the rounded slope. Below, with a subtle shift, he slid a long finger through her folds and gained entrance.
She gasped as he angled his hand side-to-side and glided fully into her, the heel of his palm resting at her throbbing center. Then he did this delicious curl with his finger, and her vision splintered. Calm and oh-so in control, he stroked her with murmured words of passion, then reassurance as he brought another finger to join the first. His hips moved in cadence, and she understood his cock, hard and pulsing against her thigh, would someday replace his finger.
Imaginingthatbrought her to the brink of climax.
“Next time,” he breathed, “my mouth. Righthere.” His thumb gently circled her nub as he thrust from fingertip to knuckle.
A moist sheen covered her body, a twist in damp silk. It was too much. Uncontrollable, the feeling, her body clenching around his hand, her legs drawing him to her. When she crested, she would have released a harsh cry had he not covered her mouth with his, welcoming the sound of her pleasure. Her toes curled as the sensation traveled, making a complete tour of her body, then spilling out like light through a thousand pinholes.
He brought his hands to her face, cradling, and kissed her once more, lingering as if he did not want to leave her.
She shuddered in his arms, helpless to do anything else.
With a glance around the room, he brought his cheek to hers and gathered a ragged inhalation through his teeth. “I must be insane.”
She gazed at him, her heart overflowing with unrevealed emotion. His aura sparked crimson and gold with an unyielding cobalt border. He was dazzling, absolutely wondrous.
Her favorite person in the entire world, should she ever have the courage to tell him.
But,no, she could not tell him—not part of the agreement, her obsession.
“Insane,” he repeated hoarsely. But still, he held her, his hands flexing on her shoulders.
“Insane, but wickedly talented.” She traced her nail along his jaw, trying not to imagine how he’d honed his skills. When he made a truncated sound of pleasure and tilted his head into the touch, she marveled that she was hungry for him so soon after release. One night would never be enough—but she would take it, nonetheless. “I will say this wasmuchbetter than doing it myself.”
A smile crossed his face, so ridiculously pleased, masculine satisfaction sharpening every feature. “Hmm, do tell,” he said and twisted a strand of her hair around his finger.
She swatted his hand away. “You’re making me admit all kinds of things aladyleaves unsaid.”
Without comment, he straightened her skirt, his trembling hands letting her know he felt it, too. He leaned to kiss the slope of her breast before working her corset and gown into place. “Imagining you touching yourself is the most arousing—” His head lifted, his gaze blistering. “I want you to touch yourself while I watch. And”—he gestured to the short distance between their bodies as if this spoke volumes—“if you come as easily as this, I’m overjoyed in advance.”
“So, this didn’t count.”