She kicked out, but the gown was wrapped around her ankle like a snake and didn’t budge. “Right this moment? With me laying on the ground trussed up like a Christmas goose?” She flailed her leg with no success.
She was half-dressed, breathing heavily, and her eyes glittered with irritation.
His mouth watered. He loved when she was irritated. “Right now.” He pressed on her shoulder, rolling her to her back and rested on his hip beside her.
She shifted her thighs, her chemise settling in the cradle of her quim. A pulse fluttered in her throat. And her breasts…
He trailed the pad of his finger over the lush mounds. Her breasts threatened to spill over the top of her chemise and stays with every breath she took.
She wasn’t a sore loser; he’d give her that. She eagerly accepted the consequences to her loss. Netta parted her mouth and tilted her chin up, ready for her kiss.
John lowered his head. He paused, his mouth hovering inches from hers.
Her eyebrows drew together. “Your kiss?”
He nudged her nose with his own. “Don’t worry. I’ll take my kiss. But I didn’t specify where.” He loosened the strings of her stays with one hand, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. He loved the way she tracked his every movement, looking like she couldn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Loved the way she sucked her lower lip into her mouth when he pushed her stays aside. Adored the slight catch in her breath when he filled his hand with her breast.
He slid down her body, and encircled one stiff nipple with his lips.
He drew on the bud. The chemise between them was a crime. He could only imagine the softness of her skin against his lips, her taste, her heat. But it was necessary. If he was going to stop at just a kiss, he needed every barrier available.
She arched, pressing closer, and he couldn’t restrain his groan. A man could blissfully suffocate between this woman’s breasts. If the last thing he had to touch, to taste, to smell, was Netta, he would die a happy man.
She threaded her fingers in his hair. “Oh, John.” Her whisper was the sweetest music.
He spent more time than he’d intended, but less than he needed at her breast, laving the skin through the wet fabric, learning every contour and curve. He stayed until he knew her reaction to every caress. Found the pressure she liked. Discovered how she couldn’t keep but moan when he scraped his teeth across her hard nipple. He stayed until his weeping cock demanded he either take it further, or let her go.
With a sigh of regret, he pulled back and refastened his pantaloons.
“Wait.” She pressed her palm to her chest. “You’re stopping?”
“Indeed.” Delayed gratification was another game he liked to play at, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. He rolled to his feet and reached for her. “That was the terms of our wager.”
She grabbed his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “But I won’t mind if we extend the terms to something more…agreeable to both parties.”
His cock twitched. Yes, it liked that idea very much. But then the game would be truly over. He and Netta would have satisfied their urges. Maybe fall into bed a couple more times and then tire of each other.
He wanted to drag out his anticipation for as long as possible. Enjoy every drawn-out moment before the inevitable boredom set in. John straightened the knot of his cravat. “I won. I set the terms.”
She shrugged, but he didn’t buy her act. There was no way a woman could be desperate for it one moment and indifferent the next, but he appreciated her efforts. Bending, she swept up her gown and tossed it over her shoulder. The move was decidedly unfeminine yet absolutely beguiling.
“You think I lost?” She sauntered to the door, her hips swaying with each step. She glanced over her shoulder and dropped her gaze to his groin.
His wayward cock strained for her, not listening when he told it to stand down.
“From where I’m standing, I won that round.” She floated from the room, with nary a concern that she wore only a chemise and one stocking. John waited to hear a scandalized shriek from a servant but none came. After all, who would dare shout at a queen.
John staggered to a chair and dropped onto it. Buggering hell, she was right. If this was what winning felt like, he didn’t want to imagine losing to the woman.
It took him several minutes to clear his head. He didn’t want to admit it, but the suspicion wouldn’t go away.
He just might have met his match in Netta Pickle.
Chapter Eleven
John leaned closer to his floor-to-ceiling mirror and frowned. He ripped out the Ballroom knot in his cravat. “Wil!” He glared at the open door to his dressing room. “Wil! Bloody hell, where did he go?”
“I’m right here.” Wilberforce strolled into the bedroom, holding a turquoise-colored waistcoat. “If you hadn’t released yet another valet from service, we wouldn’t be running late.” He draped the waistcoat over one arm and brushed John’s hands aside. “Let me.”
