“There we are,” he said, sounding infinitely pleased as he removed his hat and placed it on the seat she had vacated. “I told you there is always the carriage, did I not? And I must confess, I’ve been thinking of nothing but this from the second you left my arms earlier this evening.”
He had?
“You have?” she blurted.
“Oh, yes.” His smile turned her insides molten as he fingered the closures on her redingote, plucking them open one by one, just as he had the buttons on her night rail the night before. “And it was nothing short of torture, being seated at the dinner table tonight, staring at you in this dress without being able to do with you as I wished.”
She swallowed, licking lips that had gone suddenly dry at his words. “What did you wish to do?”
He had finished opening her outer garment, which was still Lady Andromeda’s castoff. Madame Beauchamp had managed to send the evening gown and some undergarments, but Elizabeth’s new wardrobe was far from complete.
“I wanted to do this,” he said, giving her bodice a swift tug.
So swift that her nipples popped free, her breasts completely exposed.
“And this.” He bent his head and sucked hard on one pebbled bud.
Her breath left her in a quivery sigh. His mouth was so hot and wet, the suction making an answering need throb to life between her legs. Her hands settled on his shoulders for purchase as the carriage rattled over a bump in the road.
“I can understand why you didn’t wish to do this at the dinner table before Lord and Lady Rayne,” she managed.
He chuckled against her breast, before giving her nipple another lusty suck. “It would have been desperately rude, would it have not?”
“Quite,” was all she could manage as his wicked lips latched on her other breast and one of his hands crept beneath her skirts, unerringly gliding over her bare inner thigh.
“Are you wet for me, Bess?” He scraped the swell of her breast with his teeth, his fingers venturing higher.
“Yes,” she hissed as those fingers parted her folds and glanced over the sensitive nub he had so thoroughly pleasured the night before.
How good it felt, his touch.
“I’ve been wanting to do this, too,” he murmured, eyes hooded as he watched her while he stroked her sex. “I’ve been wanting to pet this pretty cunny of yours, to feel how slick and drenched you are. Tell me, Bess, were you this wet all during dinner and polite conversation?”
His sinful words only served to heighten her need. She thought in that moment that she would do anything, say anything to please him, if only he would promise to keep touching her this way.
“I,” she began, then faltered when he rubbed rhythmically over her pearl before his fingers traced a trail of fire lower.
Words eluded her. So, too, the capacity for thought.
He parted her, his touch dipping to her entrance.
“So wet, love,” he praised, probing her lightly.
“Mmm,” was all she could manage, a guttural plea. She didn’t know what he intended to do with those clever fingers next, but it hardly mattered. All she wanted was more of it. More of him.
He sank inside her. One finger, stretching, entering her. The sensation was exquisite, sending a sharp spike of dark desire through her core.
“Ah, Christ, I love the way your cunny feels, so tight and hot.” He stroked deeper. “So perfect, gripping my finger. So greedy.”
She loved the way he felt inside her. She would have told him, but in the next second, that lone digit sank all the way inside her, reaching a place where pleasure bordered on the painfully exquisite.
She bore down on him, rocking against his hand in helpless agony, loving the fullness, the pressure. His thumb stroked over her bud as he worked his finger in and out of her with slow, maddening pumps. The sound of her wetness filled the carriage above the familiar jangling of tack and clattering of wheels and hooves. It was obscene and somehow even more rousing at the same time. She rode his finger, her breasts bouncing and swaying, her nipples hard and pointed.
“There’s my girl.” He caught a stiff peak in his mouth. “I wanted to do this, too.” He withdrew his finger suddenly, bringing it to his lips and sucking it clean before pulling it free with a rumble of pure masculine satisfaction. “And this. God, Bess, you taste so good. I want to eat your cunny when we get home. But first, I want to make you come.”
She was close already. The combination of his knowing touch and filthy words was all it required. If anyone had told her that she would be bare-breasted, riding her husband’s lap on her way home from a staid supper with the Earl and Countess of Rayne this evening, she wouldn’t have believed them. And yet, here she was. No match for her husband’s stunning sensual abandon.
His hand was beneath her gown and petticoats and chemise again, finding her center. Caressing her lightly, teasingly. Making her impatient.
