“Beatrice, I’m used to being with courtesans.They know how to feign pleasure.No, in fact, they are paid to do it.I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of it.I am sure you are doing the same right now.And I suppose you regard it as your duty.But I don’t need it.It just reminds me of what you aren’t feeling.”
“I am not being false,” she protested.“I will never pretend to enjoy what I don’t.Or that you are making me feel better than you are.I was genuinely enjoying your kiss.”
“So you say.”
She gave a sigh of exasperation.“Come here.”
She took his hand and dragged him over to the low stone bench.Then, she straddled his legs with her own, but remained standing herself.
“What are you doing?Someone might see.”
“No one is on this path.And if they were, and they saw us, they wouldn’t care.”
She took his hand and directed it under her skirts.She touched it to her core.
“Do you feel?How wet I am for you?”
He looked up at her.“Is that really for me?”
She rolled her eyes.“No, it’s for the other gentleman I am kissing in Vauxhall Gardens at present.”
“God, Beatrice,” he groaned.
“You are a very handsome man, Thomas, and I like kissing you.But you needn’t believe me.You can feel that evidence for yourself.”
His fingers slid tentatively over her sex, as if he were testing the veracity of her claims.As he did so, he grazed her clit, which only made her wetter.
“That feels good, too,” she panted.
“Truly?”he said, looking up at her as if she were a miracle.
“Yes, Thomas.Women like to be touched in such a way, especially how you are doing it.So gently.”
He continued stroking her, moving from the very entrance of her channel back to her clit, clearly reveling in the feel of her.
“Do you want to make me spend, Thomas?”
“Yes,” he said.“Very much.”
“Then keep doing that.”
Moments later, she came apart on his fingers, shuddering as she steadied herself on his shoulders.
“That was very, very good,” she said, looking down into his amber gaze.He was looking up at her like she was some kind of goddess, some sort of marvel of the world, when all she had done was what a thousand tarts had done before at Vauxhall.
She kissed him anyway, because he seemed so sincere, so unlike the man she had only met days ago.
“Now,” she said, ending the kiss.“We are not finished.”
She moved to unbutton the placket of his breeches.
One brush told her that was very, very hard indeed.
“Beatrice—what on earth—”
“Shhh,” she said.“Let me take care of you.Trust me.”
“I don’t have a letter.”
