His hand slid higher.
“No drawers,” he said, and it wasn’t words but a groan. “Oh, Zoe.”
“To be proper above and wicked below,” she murmured.
“Oh, Zoe.”
The carriage lurched again and she nearly fell off his lap, but his arm braced her. But the other hand was still under her skirts, still on her skin, sliding upward with a slowness that was torture. She buried her face in his neckcloth.
He cupped her Palace of Delight, and she let out a cry and then another as he stroked her.
Now,now, she wanted to scream.
She was ready as she’d never imagined she could be ready. She reached down and laid her hand over his breeches front, where hismembrum virilepushed against the cloth. She found the buttons and undid them, quickly, impatiently. Then she found his manly place, and she closed her hand over his instrument of delight. It wasnothinglike Karim’s.
“Zoe.”
She stroked up and down its length.
It was very large and hot and hard.
It couldn’t possibly fit inside her.
She didn’t care. They’d make it fit somehow.
She’d learned a hundred positions, and she simply turned a little and bent her knee and got her bent leg up against his hip, her foot on the carriage seat.
His hand came away from her pleasuring place and slid over her hand and pushed it away from his rod of joy. She rocked against him, as close as she could get, skin to skin.
There were a thousand roads to pleasure. This was only one.
“You,” he said thickly.
She lifted heavy-lidded eyes to meet the smoldering green of his gaze.
She leaned toward him and ran her tongue over his lips.
She licked his chin.
He made a sound, a laugh and a groan combined.
“We have to stop,” he said.
She kept on rocking, pressing her soft treasure against his hard one. She was lost in pleasure, in the dark world of the passions. She was lost in the scent of him and the low sound of his voice, so rough. The carriage rocked under them and the satin gown rustled against his breeches.
It was wicked and beautiful, and she hung in the hot darkness of desire, rocking against him, skin to skin, pleasuring herself.
“Zoe.”
She brought her hands up and pushed down the top of her dress and grasped her breasts. Eyes closed, she rocked.
He made sounds. Words, growls—she didn’t know. She was deranged with passion and pleasure and heat, beautiful animal love.
He grasped her waist. “You have to—”
And then he growled deep in his throat. His hand came between them, to her pleasure place, hot and damp. And then she felt it, the great hot thing that couldn’t fit and she didn’t care.
He pushed, and her eyes flew open.
