“And slippers.”
He huffed. “And slippers. And if I win, I get…”
“Whatever you wish.”
All the blood in his body flowed south. “That covers a lot of territory, poppet.”
“I’m not concerned.” She brushed a curl from her cheek. “Because I don’t lose.” He raised his eyebrows, and she sniffed. “Well, hardly ever. Now, what’s the game?”
***
“Da grey frwx fund hisself a bit o’ fun ‘n ‘ardly had a heppyr time in ‘is life.”
John laughed, the vibration from his throaty chuckle traveling all the way to his ballocks.
And Netta should knew. That part of his anatomy was currently in her mouth.
She knelt on the thick sheepskin rug next to his bed, his length in her hand as she suckled his testicles. This was his prize for winning the game at the modiste’s. Confounded man, she didn’t understand how he was the victor once again. Although her losses were never hardships. She’d wanted to spend the night in his bedroom and that was exactly where she was.
Using the tip of her tongue, she traced the indentation between his testes, smiling when he sagged back against his bed and gripped the coverlet. She did that to him. She weakened his knees. And the rush of power was intoxicating.
“Fuck me!” He cupped her cheek, breathing heavily.
She had no worries that anyone would hear them this night. His bedchambers took up a full half of the second floor of his townhouse and there were heavy drapes over every window and doorway. The walls were white with thick gold filigree scrollwork winding up the sides like vines to a large medallion on the ceiling.
From the medallion, a huge chandelier dripped twisted ropes of crystals and several smaller chandeliers illuminated the corners of the room. Everything, even the bed, settee, and chairs were white and gold, and it felt as though she’d stepped into a fairy forest when he’d pulled her inside.
She grasped the bed frame for balance as she changed the angle of her head. The bedpost was cool beneath her hand and even though it looked and felt like gold, she couldn’t believe the man had a solid gold bed. Not even the Earl of Summerset would possess such a thing. The frame was massive. Each corner post was actually two columns with delicately-wrought gold vines winding between them. The posters led up to a domed cage of the same metal, and the headboard was a lattice pattern that allowed enough space for a person to thread her fingers through and brace herself if the need arose.
She shifted her thighs together. She desperately hoped the need arose that night.
She rolled the velvety sac over her tongue. The scent of bergamot and musk rose from every inch of his skin, and he smelled and tasted delicious everywhere. She could happily spend the rest of her days in his home, just for the soap alone.
John ran his fingers through her hair. “Do you want to try that again? I don’t think Herodotus would approve of your enunciation.”
She tugged at him gently with her mouth, breathing him in. Loving the weight of him. Loving the groan she drew from him as though he were on the boundary of pain and pleasure and she was the master of his destiny. She gave one last lick before drawing back. “You understood well enough to know what I was saying. I’d say my lessons have borne fruit.”
“Yes.” Tilting his head, he ran his thumb along her bottom lip. “Amazingly well. I’m a more capable instructor than even I could have imagined.”
Her stomach went tight. Was that suspicion in his voice? She nipped the tip of his thumb and considered her performance. Had she dropped her street accent too easily? Had her natural manners broken through into her role?
She should just tell him the truth. John wouldn’t hold this latest pocket-sized lie against her, she didn’t think. But would he involve her in his scheme if he knew she was the daughter of a viscount? He might deem her participation too risky and cut her out of her role.
And her fee.
She swallowed. That wouldn’t do. “Wot? I can polish yer nob talking like a right guttersnipe if that’s what ‘oists your sails.”
He shuddered. “Not necessary. I quite like that you no longer sound like a dying cat when you speak.” He nudged her head towards his bobbing cock. “And I liked it even better when you weren’t speaking at all. Come, come, deliver on my win.”
Happily, Netta widened her lips and reapplied herself. A man with a woman’s mouth about his cock was a man who wasn’t pondering suspicious accents.
She took him deep, luxuriating in the feel of him against her tongue. The tickle when he caressed the roof of her mouth.
As far as a loser’s duties went, this one wasn’t half-bad. She slid her fingers under the hem of her chemise and lightly circled her clit. Her body shuddered. Not bad at all.
He gently rocked his hips back and forth. “Damn but you know how to use that mouth for more than sauce.”
“’nnk ooo.”
