“I can’t tell if any of these gents are taken with me. Oh, they say the right things, do the right things, but I can’t stop thinking about your favorite Aesop’s fable, and I find myself wary of their compliments.”
“You shouldn’t be.” He angled his head slightly and brushed his lips over hers. “They no doubt adore you as much as I do.”
“Do you?”
“I very much would like to kiss you, Miss Trewlove,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning over her cheek.
“I would very much like you to, but perhaps I should close Dickens off in my bedchamber.”
“No need. He’ll not interfere. The furry fellow and I are friends now. I fed him a tin of sardines.”
Her laugh was cut off as his mouth claimed hers, and nothing else tonight had felt so right, so perfect. She didn’t hesitate to part her lips, to give him full access to the confines within. This was what she wanted for the remainder of her life: the passion, the fire, the desire.
But finding it with him would be a blow to her family, and he’d certainly given no indication he wanted anything permanent with her. Yet where was the harm in enjoying pleasure, within limits? He’d already proven he wouldn’t take more than she was willing to give. And his mouth moving so determinedly over hers did much to calm the doubts that plagued her in spite of what had been a successful evening. She sighed with wonder, with joy, that he could make her feel so treasured.
His arm snaked around her waist, and he gently pulled her off the settee and onto his lap. Supporting her back, he bent her over slightly, changing the angle of the kiss, taking it deeper. Of their own accord, her hands went to his head, her fingers becoming entangled in the thick strands of his hair. She desperately wanted him to be as grateful to have her in his arms as she was to be within his.
But his experience was so beyond hers. He stroked his hand down her back and cupped her bottom with abandon, without hesitation, with a surety that announced more clearly than any words that he was familiar with the female anatomy, that he knew how to touch, how to press, how to stroke in ways that could drive a woman mad—in the best possible way.
While she was a novice, learning her way around a man’s physique. But what a wonderful specimen he was. Muscled and toned, firm beneath her touch as her hands journeyed over his shoulders, his back. While pleasure was threatening to distract her, she was determined to come to know him a little more, to give to him as much as he was giving to her.
As she trailed the fingers of one hand along his bristly jaw, he groaned low and carried his mouth on a journey to her ear where he nibbled on her lobe before sweeping his tongue over the sensitive shell. How did one ever learn all the different areas where an intimate stroke would weaken knees? She felt as though her entire body was in danger of melting.
Suddenly she realized he was no longer supporting her, that she was spread out on the thick Aubusson rug, and he was nestled against her side, raised up on an elbow. Lifting his mouth from hers, he held her gaze as he trailed his finger along her décolletage, where flesh met silk. Back and forth, back and forth. Then he stopped, his fingers lingering over the swell that had been denied his attention after the first ball.
“Yes?” His voice was a tortured rasp, that of a captured man seeking to be free.
“Yes.”
With a low growl, he set himself to the task of revealing what he wanted to claim. When silk, lace, and more were dragged down and her breast was free of all restraints, he lowered his head and took her breast into his mouth. Not just the nipple, but as much as he could, his tongue gliding over and around. Then he was sucking as though she were a hard confection to be worked over with patience and determination, enjoyed and appreciated.
She dug her fingers into his scalp, holding him in place, even as her hips tilted up, her feminine core pressing up against him as her body sought surcease. If Dickens interfered now, she would kill him.
She became aware of Matthew gathering up her skirts and petticoats with one large hand, pushing them up until they were a mound at her waist. Cupping her intimately, he released her breast, peppering kisses around and over it before capturing her gaze, his own smoldering. Slowly, deliberately, he inserted a finger through the part in her undergarments and slid it along her feminine core. She gasped at the wondrous sensation, could feel herself throbbing for him.
“Yes?” he asked.
She gave a jerky nod. “Yes.”
He stroked her once, twice, three times, gave a dark, wicked chuckle when she released a tiny squeal. The entire time, he didn’t take his eyes from hers, knew he was driving her to distraction, relished doing so. She wondered if on the morrow, people would look at her and be able to determine she’d been touched so intimately. It seemed sensations so profound, so intoxicating should leave their mark for all the world to see.
Smoothly, swiftly, he practically climbed down her body until his head was at the juncture of her thighs. With both hands, he parted the opening in her drawers, widening the slit until she could feel the breeze of his breath. Filled with promise, his gaze held hers for all of a heartbeat before he disappeared behind the gathered mound of her skirts.
His tongue stroked what his fingers had only moments before, and she cried out from the pure ecstasy of it. “Oh God!”
She wanted to tell him to stop, feared she’d die if he did. He suckled and soothed, tormented her with light caresses, then delivered stronger ones. She’d never known it was possible to feel so many different things at once. She was flying, yet grounded, on the verge of laughing, close to tears. She was straining to reach the top of a mountain—
And then she was soaring through the heavens, among the stars, but like her kite, still tethered, tethered to him. She was vaguely aware of him moving up, even as he straightened her skirts, attempted to return to her a bit of modesty.
He wore a self-satisfied smile that she suspected very much matched her own. “You breathed fire down there.”
Chuckling low, he threaded his fingers through her still bound hair. “My waiting for you was done with the best of intentions, but I can see now that I am easily led astray when you are near. Yet I am loath to leave. But I know if I stay, come morning, you’ll not be a virgin.”
How she wanted him to stay, how she wanted to know him fully. But she knew the challenges that awaited ruined women. Her siblings had all been brought to her mum because of errors in judgment.
She brushed the tips of her fingers along his cheek. “I am tempted. But too high a price is paid for momentary pleasures.” For her the payment would be the dashing of all dreams—hers and her family’s. “I can’t accept what you’re offering.”
“As well you shouldn’t. The lords of London are fools if they are giving you any reason at all to doubt the sincerity of their compliments.”
