“I know,” she said—and she did know, the cursed bloody annulment, and yet—“I want to feel you—only touch you—can I—”
“Yes,” he said, “please.”
She stroked him, circling him with her fingers, and then the hand on her buttocks tightened, closing what little space remained between them. Her sex ground against his erection; her clitoris rubbed slickly against his flesh as his cock dragged through her folds.
“Jesus, you’re so wet—I want you to come like this—can you come like this? I want you to—I want—”
Devoid of speech, he showed her. His arm flexed, raising her, dragging their bodies together. She whimpered at the friction against her hypersensitive flesh, then gasped as he did it again—again—again—
“Touch yourself,” he gritted out. “Touch us both.”
Her fingers slid through wetness, stroked herself, wrapped around him. There was nothing but this soft shadowed world—her pleasure and his, her fingers, his cock, her name in his mouth, and the tightening grip of her climax. She felt feverish and desperate, her body drawing tighter and tighter, her release so close she felt she might shatter.
“That’s good,” Spencer was saying, “that’s so good—ohfuck,Winnie—”
She came hard, shuddering, sweat beading on her skin and dripping between her breasts, and her climax went on and on, and Spencer held her through it, grinding their bodies together.
He was still murmuring sweet filthy words, eyes squeezed shut, when she slid off his lap and down onto the floor of the carriage between his legs.
His eyes came open. In the dark humid interior of the carriage, she found the shadowed planes of his face—his expression of agonized delight when he realized what she was about.
She circled his erection with her fingers, and his hips jumped, thrusting into her hand. She leaned forward and tasted the moisture on his cock—her own wetness and the beaded liquid at his tip.
His voice when he spoke sounded almost pained. “You don’t have to.”
She swirled her tongue across the head of his member before she spoke. “You want me to?”
“So much. So goddamned much. But I’m—I can’t—I’m already on the edge. I would spend in your mouth.”
“I want that.” She wanted it desperately—wanted to see him fall apart for her. Wanted every scrap of his control gone.
She tried on him what he had done to her countless times these last days. She licked. She sucked. She used her fingers, which slipped easily along his length, wet from her mouth and her own arousal.
“Oh God,” he gasped. One of his hands was in her hair, tight, how she liked it. The other clung desperately to the cushions. His hips pumped, tiny pulses into her mouth. “You can—ohyes,suck like that—you can stop if you—oh Win, your mouth—you can stop if it’s too much—ohfuckWinnieyes—yes yes yes—”
And she sucked and stroked, and he tightened his grip on her hair, and with a last gasp of “Now,Win—” he spent himself in her mouth, hot and flooding.
When his release ended, his hand slipped bonelessly from her hair. His chest rose and fell erratically, and his fingers twitched on the squabs.
“Come here to me,” he mumbled.
She did. She moved to his lap, settling herself on one sturdy thigh and leaning against his chest. His cravat dangled loose. His waistcoat was unfastened, his shirt untucked, every button of his trousers freed. His eyes were closed, and his expression was so relaxed she might have thought him asleep.
Undone. He was completely undone, exactly as she had wanted. And still he was not hers, not really.
But she could pretend. She was good at that. She could make herself believe that this was enough. She put one hand to his sweat-damp brow and traced his cheekbone with her thumb.
“I like the opera,” she said.
His eyes opened. He took her in, and in his face was pure amazed appreciation.
How are you real?he’d asked.
In the dark secret universe of their bodies, of this carriage, everything felt real, and everything felt right.
His mouth curled up, and one of his arms came around her, cradling her against his body. “I like it too,” he said, “with you.”
Chapter 13
