She shut her eyes at the absurdity of the compliment. Usually, she wasn’t self-conscious about her body. Her legs were full, like she was. Still, she had been called plump, too large, by others. She knew the reality that confronted her in the mirror. Some saw her size as a defect, others as plain fact, and others thought her very comely, for it or despite it. She herself did not dislike her size, did not abhor it or try to change it—she found herself quite beautiful, even, at times. But her legs were the one part of herself she struggled to accept.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know I am too stout.”
“Nonsense. You’re perfect.”
He kissed the inside of her knee, worrying the sensitive skin there. Anticipation ran straight to her core.
“I have dreamed about these legs. Wanted nothing more than to lose myself in them again.” He buried his face into her thighs, kissing until he reached her core. “Open for me.”
She gave in. Of course, she did.
His tongue had always been wicked. She had been with other men since and none had even come close to his skill in this regard. Whereas she had had other lovers with large cocks, some equal to Augustus in length if not girth, she had never encountered a man with his skill in givingthispleasure.
He plundered her now without mercy and the sensations overtook her. She tried not to moan aloud but it was impossible. The feeling of his tongue inside of her, his lips on her clit—it was too much to experience without gasping.
He somehow managed to give her the fullest pleasure possible without letting her tip over the edge. It had always been his talent. To let her ride this pleasure for the longest time possible before sending her to ecstasy.
From within her pleasure, though, she still had a sense of his body. And she realized that her foot was rested on his thigh. She wanted to have some part in pleasing him—to give him something, even if it was small. She moved her foot and soon found his cock.
Immediately, he moaned into her at the pressure. His cock was hard and pulsing below the sole of her foot. He must be very close to coming himself.
For a moment, she thought he might object to the contact as he had previously, but he did not stop feeding on her. With what he was doing to her, she only had the ability to palpitate him gently. And yet he groaned as ifshewere the one pleasuring him with her mouth.
Just as she was on the brink, she felt the carriage slow.No,she thought desperately,he couldn’t stop now.
“Augustus, please.”
“Don’t worry,” he said into her, the words barely distinguishable, the vibration of his mouth making her cry out again.
Then, she felt him enter her with his fingers and he leaned down and brought his tongue to her clit, licking and sucking and teasing, somehow all at once. She kept her foot on his cock, delighting in the hardness there, and feeling when, just before she was about to find her own ecstasy, he shuddered beneath her.
When she came, she saw stars, the sensation rocking her body and forcing her to take leave of her senses.
She felt Augustus right her skirts. She was unequal to helping in the matter.
With her eyes still closed, she heard the coach door open. Cool night air sliced through the carriage.
Olivia opened her eyes and saw Augustus’s footman looking down at them. Augustus was still on his knees, spread out before her, his dishevelment attesting to their tryst.
Augustus removed himself to the coach seat. The footman had the restraint to keep his expression neutral.
As the man handed her down, Olivia recollected that it was probably not the first time that this servant had seen such things.
After all, the Earl of Montaigne was a notorious rake.
Chapter Sixteen
As his carriagepulled away from Olivia’s Bloomsburg lodgings and the residue from his own pleasure began to dry in his smalls, Lord Montaigne, supreme rakehell, knew that he had been utterly destroyed for life.
The night scenes of London rolled past his window, and he looked out at them unseeing. Usually, he enjoyed watching the people of London revel in the evening. He liked picking out the bright dresses of the ladies and the striped waistcoats of the gentlemen, spotting couples wending themselves through the crowds and away to some private place. The sounds of the fruit and pie-sellers, still hawking their wares despite the late hour, cheered him, and he was pleased by the sight of working people, from the charwoman to the banker, efficiently making their way through the streets towards home. London usually absorbed him and bolstered him. But now he looked out on these familiar sights and absorbed nothing.
Because of her.
In the last few years, convinced he would never see Olivia Watson again, he had begun to tell himself that he had imagined their connection. Or, rather, not that he had imagined it, but that it had come about at so tender an age for him that he would have felt that way with anyone to whom he took more than a common fancy. Before she had reappeared, he had made real progress convincing himself of this. He had been able to look at a few women and feel something more than the most vulgar interest. He had begun to imagine a day, in the somewhat distant future, when he might be able to take a wife. Such a wife, he knew, would not result in the kind of relationship that drove him to distraction or made him beg, as he just had, for anything she would give him. But he had begun to be able to imagine a companionable union, one built on respect and mutual care, that would be sedate and pleasing. A child, he thought, he might enjoy. He had grown up in a large family. He had begun, in a hazy, milquetoast kind of way, to see it.
Now, of course, that was all blasted to hell.
After tasting her, having her back in his arms, he knew that he could never undertake such a union. He would want Olivia and only Olivia until the day he died. With Olivia Watson, with his mouth on her, giving her whatever pleasure he could—that was where he was supposed to be. That was what God had intended him for.
