Page 12 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

“ N ow,” one of the women purred. “Where were we?”

Oh, god. Annette knew what that tone meant. She’d used it on her former paramours.

The other woman laughed. “Hurry up! Palmerston will leave the card room soon, and he’ll wonder where I went.”

Kissing noises filled the room. “Bother your old husband,” the first got out between what sounded like hot, drugging kisses. “I was promised a kitty to pet and I plan to pet it.”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Palmerston moaned.

Damaris and Annette met one another’s surprised glances.

“What do we do?” Damaris mouthed.

Annette shrugged. She knew Lady Palmerston. She’d visited the woman’s townhome for a fitting last year. Annette never would’ve guessed the lady was lusty enough to make those noises.

“I’ve missed that tongue of yours,” the lady gasped over the sound of hastily lifted skirts and dropped slippers.

A conflicted look crossed Damaris’s face. She made to rise.

Annette’s arm shot out, clamping down on her shoulder. Absolutely not .

Damaris gave her a frustrated look and gestured vaguely in the direction of the two lovers. “Privacy?” she mouthed. Her shawl slipped from her elbows and pooled on the floor behind her.

Annette grimly shook her head. Be silent.

If they popped out now, they’d surprise Lady Palmerston and her lover badly enough that Annette and Damaris would likely be tossed from the ball.

They’d just have to very quietly endure the experience, and Annette would pray that she’d never have to perform another fitting for Lady Palmerston again.

As the sounds and scents of sex filled the room, Annette tried not to think of how desperate she was for a lover’s embrace. Especially if it was Damaris’s. She glanced from the corner of her eyes at her companion.

Damaris squirmed beside her, clearly awkward and uncomfortable with the intimacy on the other side of the settee.

Annette felt badly for her. She’d gone through quite a journey in one day—learning sapphic passions existed, having her first kiss, and now exploring voyeurism, albeit against her will.

She reached over and put her hand over Damaris’s, partially to calm her emotions and partially as a reminder to be absolutely still and silent.

Damaris froze, eyes trained down on the edge of the Aubusson carpeting.

The paramours knew each other well and had missed one another very much, for both women found their crisis quite quickly. There was a lull, with sweet whispers and the sound of gentle kisses drifting across the room.

Annette fought back the envy rising in her chest as well as the desire twisting tighter in her belly.

She hadn’t thought she’d be so affected—it seemed impolite, really.

But she’d vastly underestimated the suggestion of passion while hiding beside the object of her infatuation.

And Damaris’s hand was still beneath hers.

She pressed her lips together to keep her breathing from growing heavy and loud.

The kissing grew faster, louder, more urgent. One woman gave a throaty chuckle. “You’re never allowed to visit your sister in Hampshire again. I cannot live without you.”

Instead of replying verbally, the other woman must’ve done something quite clever with her mouth, because the first woman gasped and moaned.

Annette’s core throbbed, and she couldn’t help but imagine a different scenario, where it was Damaris lying on the carpet in a private room, the firelight glinting off Damaris’s loose tresses, gowns designed by Annette tossed and thrown across the room, and Annette’s hands caressing the lithe, nubile body quivering beneath her.

Damaris eased back on her knees, settling into a kneeling position with her legs folded beneath her. Slowly, she looked at Annette.

And by god, was she a sight. Her eyes were dilated so wide Annette could scarcely see the color. Her cheeks were flushed, and her bosom rose in quick, shaky thrusts.

Annette blinked. Oh. Oh. Damaris wasn’t scandalized. She was aroused . The idea of her arousal made Annette’s own smoldering desire flame to life, and she could feel the wetness in her drawers. “You liked this,” she whispered.

Damaris nodded, somehow looking shy and nervous but very, very intent. In the background, the sounds of passion grew louder.

A wild, dangerous idea took hold in Annette’s mind.

She raised her eyebrows and reached out, stroking Damaris’s cheek with the back of her fingers.

“Shall we?” she mouthed, leaning in close enough that Damaris would feel the warmth of her breath and the women on the other side of the room would never hear them.

Perhaps Annette should be more worried about the grenade. But they were trapped, and she didn’t want to lose this chance.

Damaris nodded eagerly, then glanced around, her gaze darting to Annette and then away.

Annette, realizing that Damaris didn’t know how to begin or even ask for Annette to begin, smiled and took charge. She slid closer, closer, closer still, until their breath mingled. She rubbed soothing circles into Damaris’s shoulder. Relax , she urged.

Damaris’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled. And then she kissed Annette—hard and fast and oh so eager.

It made Annette burn. She cupped Damaris’s neck and pulled closer, reveling in the feeling of their bare skin against one another.

Their tongues met, touched, stroked, and caressed.

Slowly, Annette shifted her weight to gently nudge Damaris backward.

Her other hand slid along the hem of the pooled gown to find those silk stockings, then grazed her fingertips up to Damaris’s calf, helping her straighten her legs.

A floorboard beneath her creaked, making the other occupants of the room pause.

“Did you hear something?”

Annette and Damaris froze, nervous energy and arousal pumping through both of them.

Another kiss. “No, darling. Probably someone in the corridor.”

Annette didn’t breathe until she was certain the women had resumed their lovemaking.

Soon Damaris lay on the ground, turning her head to the side to accommodate her hairstyle, and watched Annette.

The pink shawl drew the blush out in her cheeks.

Annette’s heart thrummed with happiness at the sight of that shawl.

She stroked the fringe with her index finger, and Damaris’s smile blossomed, as if she knew what Annette was thinking.

Annette’s heart ached from the tender joy that smile caused.

One of the women moaned loudly, and the sound coupled with the look in Damaris’s eyes made Annette go nearly wild with desire.

She braced herself on one elbow and leaned over Damaris, resuming their kisses and caresses.

She dipped a finger inside the neckline, skimming the tops of Damaris’s breasts.

“I dreamed about this,” she murmured against the pulse in Damaris’s throat.

“As I stitched the gown, one night I dreamed I touched you, too.” The pressure between her legs built as she became more aroused.

She slid her fingers below the edge of the corset and chemise, fitting them in only a way a modiste could slip past fashion, and stroked one of Damaris’s nipples.

Damaris gasped, arching up against Annette, rubbing their bosoms together. “That’s lovely,” she whimpered.

Be quiet! Annette put a finger to her lips, giving Damaris a warning look. Damaris blushed and bit her lips in apology.

Annette glanced over, in the direction of the other women.

But they were too wrapped up in their own affair to hear Damaris.

She turned back to Damaris, heartily wishing they had time and a bed, and she could show her all sorts of wicked things to do with fingers and tongues.

“You are very lovely,” she whispered in her ear.

She licked the tension from Damaris’s neck, then pressed a kiss to the bare skin above her breasts.

She pulled back enough to reach Damaris’s stockinged ankle.

Such a slim, pretty ankle. She stroked upward, smiling down at the desperate want in Damaris’s eyes.

Damaris bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

Annette tried not to chuckle as she let the fabric of the gown gather around Damaris’s waist as she reached the edge of the stockings and encountered a garter and then bare skin.

Damaris’s eyes flew open and her hand jerked downward to grab Annette’s wrist, freezing her in place.

Annette halted, staring at Damaris in surprise. What had gone wrong?

Damaris blushed, and this time it had nothing to do with the women finding their satisfaction over by the hearth. She looked…embarrassed. “Please don’t…please don’t think badly,” she whispered.

Annette gave her a quizzical look.

“Just…promise not to look at my garters.”

Annette didn’t need to look; she’d already seen the undyed scraps of linen.

Mrs. Dunham had an appalling understanding of fashion, which usually wouldn’t be much of an issue save for two things: She wanted to gallivant in high society and marry her daughter off to the most fashionable people in London, and Damaris deserved to feel pretty in her clothes. Because she was pretty.

She cocked her head in a silent question. Why not?

“Because,” Damaris murmured. “You’re…a modiste and you’re French and you’re a French modiste. And beautiful,” she added, lifting her hands to embrace Annette.

Annette smiled into her lover’s hair. So are you.

Before Damaris could contradict her or get them off-track, Annette swirled her fingers high on Damaris’s exposed thigh, then ran them through Damaris’s maidenhair.

Annette slid her fingers down through the wet, plump folds of Damaris’s sex.

Already so wet. She stroked and patted, rubbed and glided her fingers, ignoring the way her own sex ached for attention.

Slowly she inserted one, then two fingers inside Damaris’s cunny. She was glad she’d recently trimmed her nails, since she’d been tatting delicate lacework that morning. Damaris’s sheathe sucked her fingers right in, tightening around them as she let her growing pleasure drive her.

“That’s it,” Annette whispered, stroking back a wisp of flyaway hair from Damaris’s forehead.

She pumped her fingers, then fluttered them, then curled them upward in a beckoning motion.

She carefully watched Damaris’s expression, learning what every twitch and sigh and eye roll meant.

She would make this experience so damn wonderful Damaris would have to return to her for pleasure in the future. Again and again.

Damaris bit back a moan, drawing one leg up so her knee pointed to the ceiling and her foot was flat on the ground.

Annette added her thumb, stroking that darling little button hidden by the glistening blonde curls at the top of Damaris’s cunny.

Damaris’s responsive gasp filled the room, but they were both too far gone to care if the other women heard. Annette couldn’t hold back her smile. She pressed again, adding slightly more pressure, and then dragging the pad of her thumb up and down.

Damaris gripped Annette’s shoulder with one hand, clutching it so tight Annette thought she might pop a stitch in her shoulder seam. Those breathy gasps, so silent but so expressive, would be the death of Annette. And then Damaris’s crisis overtook her.

Annette had never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life than Damaris’s widened, dilated eyes, her flushed cheeks, the shocked smile on those pretty lips, nor the way she sagged back into the carpeting with a drowsy, half-lidded look of content and lazy happiness.

Annette swallowed, nearly unable to bear the sight.

She carefully withdrew her fingers, then brought them up to her lips. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she licked Damaris’s honey off them.

Damaris’s eyes widened further.

Annette grinned around her fingers, delighting in surprising her lover. She clenched the walls of her own sheathe, wishing that they had time for her, too, to experience a little death.

The sounds on the other side of the settee were slowing, the women murmuring to one another between gentle kisses.

The clock on the mantle suddenly chimed a quarter after nine.

All four women jumped.

“I need to go,” Lady Palmerston said breathlessly.

The other woman groaned. “Are you quite serious?”

“Yes, my love. I told you that I don’t wish for Palmerston to note my absence on the same night that you’ve returned to town. He allows my dalliances, as he calls them, but he’s very concerned about keeping up appearances, you know.”

More grumbling echoed across the small room, followed by the sounds of clothing being adjusted and slippers put back on feet.

A loud smack of an affectionate kiss. “Come now. You promised a waltz to one of those military men anyway.”

Annette held her breath, her entire body tensed as the danger was nearly over. It felt like it took an eternity, but finally the couple left the room.

The soft click of the door echoed as loud as a gunshot across the room.

Annette sighed. “They’re gone.” She gingerly released Damaris’s hand.

Damaris smiled. “You did that? For me, as a friend?”

“Not as a friend, no,” Annette said, sharper than she intended. When Damaris flinched, she added in a gentler tone, “Because I like you and I received pleasure from this, too. I like the taste of you on my tongue,” she added.

Damaris somehow grew even more red at that.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, and Annette had to back away to grant her the space.

“What about you?” Her shaky hands reached for the tapes of Annette’s plain servant dress.

“I would like to learn how to please you.” She licked her lips, and Annette nearly groaned with need at that little pink tongue darting out, as curious as Damaris herself was.

Her body ached and throbbed with unsatisfied passion.

She grabbed both of those hands, pressing them to her lips.

“Yes, please, yes. But we shouldn’t have taken the time we did for this.

To be thorough, we should look one last time for Philippe. ”

Damaris grimaced, smoothing back any stray hair from her face, and the world returned with all its pressing responsibilities. “Oh. Right. Him.”

Annette helped Damaris straighten her clothing, then they stood and left the room, albeit reluctantly. She could only hope that they’d have the opportunity soon, because the thought of Damaris’s slender fingers slipping inside Annette’s hidden, soft places made her so needy she couldn’t breathe.