Madame Laurent had never said a word about how glorious his touch on her would be. Her body had a mind of its own, instinctively arching up to meet him, demanding more connection, more friction, requiring a soothing for the ache building at her core and radiating outward. He was rigid in his trousers, and each time she moved against him brought her more of the pressure she craved. Yet still, the ache could not be relieved.
He thrust against her, giving her what she sought, and the abrasion of his trousers against her intimate flesh was almost more than she could bear. Until he kissed his way to the peak of her breast and sucked her nipple into his hot, wet mouth.
The cry that left her was lusty and shameful, but she could not muster even the slightest hint of regret. It seemed as if her nipple was connected to the part of her that was yearning and throbbing with need. Each pull of his mouth had her writhing against him in search of more.
He shifted then, moving so that he was between her legs, gently spreading them to make room for himself. The position increased her vulnerability. She was open to him in every way, and yet nothing had ever felt more right. The part of her that had been raised to guard her virtue with the zeal of a soldier protecting his homeland rose, telling her this was wrong. That she was acting the wanton as she had before at that dreadful ball, surrendering with such ease.
But then she remembered she was already well beyond the point of ever becoming a respectable lady. The best she could hope for was to play the duenna for Abigail and Cassandra, and even that hope grew increasingly unlikely. The reality was that she may have to seek employment somewhere outside London. Perhaps as a governess where no one knew her name and the scandal that had chased her to Hart’s arms would not follow her.
I don’t want to be a governess.
His mouth traveled to her other breast, where he licked lazy circles around her nipple.
All I want is this man.
Where had that thought emerged from? It was wrong, and she should not be naked in his bed, should not be enjoying his attentions. Yet she was. And she did.
But then, that wicked mouth of his moved again, this time, trailing kisses across her belly. His hands were on her thighs, caressing, urging them wider. He slid down her body, drifting out of comfortable reach, his dark head trailing tantalizingly nearer to her most intimate flesh. Her fingers twisted into the bedclothes at her sides.
“You have such a pretty cunny,” he praised, raking his nails lightly along her hips. “So wet and perfect and pink.”
He was…looking at her. The instinct to snap her legs closed rose, but his head was there, his face near, and his hands were on her inner thighs now, keeping her splayed and open to his gaze. His stare was dark and centered on her, and she knew a sinful rush of pleasure to think he was looking upon her in a place where no one had before.
She liked him looking at her thus, liked his praise, liked the expression on his countenance, which was, she thought, the first time she had ever seen him without his ordinarily impenetrable mask in place. To think she could have such an effect upon a man like him. There was no denying the stark hunger in his gaze just before his head dipped.
The touch of his lips on her there was so startling, so delicious, she jerked beneath him. Madame Laurent had not spoken a word about this. Surely such an act was wrong. She should stop him. Emma’s eyes closed against the sight, for it felt somehow more sinful with her watching.
“You taste so sweet,” he said, and then, his tongue flicked over her, tracing over the sensitive bud hidden in her folds.
She forgot to think about whether or not it was wrong for his mouth to be upon her so. Because her ability to think altogether had been obliterated by desire. Stirring, hot, all-encompassing desire.
He licked her as if he were savoring her on his tongue. As if she were a decadent confection, and he could not get enough. Slow, hot swipes over her had her hips moving, had her body begging for more, because this intense pleasure was still somehow not enough. Although she told herself she must not look, must not witness the carnal act he was performing on her, her eyes opened, as if possessed by a will of their own.
She was struck by the beauty of their positioning, her body pale and feminine in the rumpled bedclothes she had abandoned in her sleep. His dark head between her legs, his handsome face buried in her—dare she think the naughty word he had used—cunny. How vulgar and how wrong to think it, to like it, for the mere thought of the word to make wetness gather at the heart of her. How wrong it was to like the way his mouth moved over her sex, to revel in the pleasure he gave. To watch the muscles rippling in his shoulders as he worked his magic.
He sucked, the sound echoing in the stillness. And still, she did not ask him to stop, because his mouth was pure seduction. He was driving her nearer to something unreachable. Her entire body felt as if it were about to come apart, like the seams of a poorly stitched gown.
With a groan of pure, base enjoyment, he rubbed his face against her, and the abrasion of his whiskers on her flesh, coupled with the added pressure, was too much. Something within her seized. The sudden force of her body’s reaction took her by surprise, and a lusty moan was torn from her lips as the beginning of her release rocked through Emma. How startling, how wondrously alive she felt. Nothing could have prepared her, no experienced advice from Madame Laurent, no stolen alcove kisses, nothing. Her breath caught, and her chest felt as if it were too tight. The most exquisite sensation she had ever known blossomed from her core, like a summer’s bloom.
She reveled in it, stiffening, arching, pressing herself shamelessly into that handsome face and wicked mouth as her hips undulated of their own accord. Her heart pounded, and a glittering, shimmering warmth spread from the center of her body outward.
But Hart was not finished. He licked down her seam, his tongue finding her entrance, and he lapped at her. Her hands twisted in the bedclothes as she shamelessly writhed, because she wanted him there. Wanted him inside her, stretching her, filling her, taking her as she had asked him to do.
His tongue sank into her in shallow, slow thrusts, and then he tipped his head back, his gaze meeting hers as he licked her. The ache that had just been quelled grew, throbbing deep within her. She planted her feet flat on the feather mattress and pressed higher, chasing his lips and tongue and teeth. Needing him so desperately that she did not care about anything else.
She had known she would have to surrender herself to this man.
But she had never expected to enjoy it.
He lifted his head, his lips glistening with the evidence of her desire, and somehow, she liked that too.
“Do I please you?” she asked softly, hoping she did.
The terms of the auction necessitated it, and she must not forget. Her father had received half of the sum Hart had paid for her at The Garden of Flora, with the other half to be delivered upon the satisfactory completion of their week together. It was her duty to make him want her, to make certain she fulfilled her part of the bargain, she reminded herself. It could not be a sin, and she could not be a wanton, if she was in Hart’s bed for good reason, even if she found pleasure in the act.
Could it?
“I like you here in my bed,” he said, his voice low and smooth as velvet. “I didn’t know how much I would.”
As he spoke, his hands were on her, caressing in slow, tender strokes up and down her hips, her inner thighs, keeping her spread and open for his delectation. She could not lie; being the feast laid before him gave her forbidden pleasure.
“You like it too,” he added, as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. “You like my tongue on you, in you. Don’t you, milady?”
Milady.