“Why not?”
One of his big hands had drifted up the thick muscle of his thigh, his palm pressing down against the fine fabric of his trousers. She wondered if he even realized he had done it. She could see his cock, stiff and straining against his falls. His hand moved lazily up.
“The windows,” he managed. His eyes were hot, devouring her. She let one of her own hands slide over her knee, tugging the fabric of her dress up to reveal her stockings, and he made a helpless sound. “Anyone—could see. And we—there’s no time—”
She leaned across the squabs and tugged at the tie that held the thick leather curtain open at the window. It came undone in her hand and the fabric unspooled, blocking out most of the light. Then, wordless, she repeated the action on the other side of the carriage.
Only a little light spilled in at the edges. Before her eyes adjusted to this new dark, Spencer had her wrists in his hands. He dragged her across the empty space between them and pulled her up to straddle his hips.
“Oh God,” he said. His mouth was on her cheek, her ear, her neck. “Oh Jesus, Winnie, I want you.”
She pulled at his cravat and bared his skin, wanting to see, to touch, to taste—
“Wait,” he gasped, “wait—”
And then, clutching her body against his, he half-opened the door to the carriage.
She squeaked in surprise, her thighs tightening around his hips, and he emitted a sound that could probably best be described as a whimper.
“Thomas,” he said to the coachman, “don’t go home. Drive—anywhere. Keep driving until I tell you to turn around.”
There was an obliging murmur in response, and then Spencer pulled the door closed, yanked her skirts up, and found the bare skin of her backside with his hands.
His touch felt delicious, his fingers kneading into the muscle of her buttocks, and she was greedy. Hungry for more. She slipped free the buttons of his waistcoat, dragged his shirt from his trousers, and slid her hands up his abdomen. His skin was hot—his chest solid and muscular, sprinkled with hair.
He groaned as her hands traced his body, and his head tipped back against the cushion. “That feels so good. I can’t think.”
“Don’t,” she said, and then she put one hand on the cushion beside his head and kissed him.
He groaned again as her mouth met his. One of his hands came free of her skirts and found the back of her head, twining into her hair, holding her against him. His other hand squeezed her flesh, cupping and molding her, and his mouth was frantic and hungry on hers. He kissed and sucked at her lips, her tongue, and every little suction was a desperate demand. His mouth pulled the knot of desire in her belly tighter, and his hands rocked her pelvis against his.
He hissed as she moved against him, his fingers tightening in her hair, and she almost sobbed. She broke their kiss, sliding her hand from the cushion beside his head to his chest, then to the bunched-up yards of her skirts between them.
“Spencer,” she gasped, “I need—I need—”
“I know,” he said, “I’ve got you.”
And then his hands were at her breasts, scooping into the low-cut bodice to pinch and roll her nipples.
And it felt good—it felt impossible, as though each pluck of Spencer’s fingers was a drag along her clitoris. The knot in her belly was so tight—her breasts felt full and aching, and she could feel her sex clench on the rising tide of her own climax.
But she wanted—she wanted—
She fought with her skirts until all the fabric between them was gone, billowing out over her knees. Her hands slipped beneath the soft crepe.
One of Spencer’s hands went around to her back, steadying her. “Yes,” he said, “yes, Win, touch yourself. I want to see you come like this. Oh—fuck—”
Her fingers had slipped against her sex, moving through folds soaked with her arousal, and then continued on, her palm sliding firmly up the length of his erection.
He jerked against her, helplessly riding her hand. His face was a study in desire and desperation, his lips parted and kiss-swollen, his lids lowered over lust-glazed eyes. His hand slid from her breast up to her neck, his thumb stroking her jaw, her mouth.
“God, your hand,” he groaned. “Touch yourself. Tell me how wet you are. Christ, I’d kill to feel you on my cock.”
With one hand, she circled her clitoris, barely nudging the swollen peak, and she heard herself make a raw, needing sound.
With her other hand, she slipped loose the buttons of his falls and found his sex, thick and iron-hard.
His hand on her back had turned to a hand on her buttocks, urging her against him, but at the touch of her fingers on his bared cock, he froze. “Win,” he rasped, “we—I—we can’t—”
