A bit dizzy, she rested her palms on the cool wood surface. “Oh my.”
He pressed his palm between her shoulder blades and urged her down until she lay flat against the desk.
Her breath grew choppy as Brogan flipped her skirts up over her hips.
He ran his thumb along her bare flesh. “No pantalets?”
“Not with this dress,” she said cheekily.
The sound of flesh smacking flesh rang in her ear a moment before the sting from his palm registered in her brain.
She blinked, shocked more than anything else. “Did you just spank me?”
“Do you regularly go about London not wearing underthings?”
“It isn't my typical mode of dress, no.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.
He smacked her bottom again, the bloom of heat from the spank merging with a different heat. She rubbed her legs together, trying to ease the ache between her thighs.
“Make it a never mode of dress,” he replied.
Fabric rustled. She looked over her shoulder in time to see Brogan drop to his knees.
He gripped her arse with both hands, spreading her cheeks apart, exposing everything.
She squirmed. She was more liberated than most women of her acquaintance, but still, some things should remain private. “Brogan, I don't think—”
Her throat squeezed shut, her eyes rolling to the back of her head at the first touch of his tongue. “Dear Lord,” she whispered when she caught her breath.
He sucked at her swollen folds, switching between nipping at her with his teeth and lapping at her with his tongue. He plunged that organ into her opening, mimicking the motion of tupping. His fingers moved dangerously close to her other hole, and her modesty deserted her.
What he was doing felt so good, she didn’t care where his touch, his gaze, might land. He felt heavenly inside of her, even though his tongue wasn’t nearly large enough to fully satisfy.
Brogan dragged his lips down to her clit and latched on.
She moaned, loud and long. This was her best compromise ever. She dug her nails into the desk as Brogan brought her higher and higher. As her body coiled tighter. The sounds that left her mouth were barely human. She felt barely human. More animal, wanting without thought, needing without worry of consequence.
Before she could crash over the edge. Brogan pulled back. “No,” she wailed.
“You’re going to bring the whole damn house to us with the noise you're making.” He grabbed her hair, and pulled her head back. “Open up.”
Her forehead furrowed. “What—”
Brogan shoved the balled-up cravat into her mouth, cutting off her question.
She gurgled in protest, shooting him a baleful glare.
He smoothed his hand down her flanks, looking much too pleased with himself. “Even with your known eccentric upbringing, your reputation wouldn’t withstand someone finding us alone in this room together.” He flicked open his falls, pushing his smallclothes out of the way. “Especially not with my cock buried in your quim.”
He notched his crown at her wet channel and entered her in one smooth stroke.
The silk cravat felt awful on her tongue, but she could moan and squeal to her heart's delight, a definite benefit.
And when Brogan gripped her hip with one hand, and the back of her neck with his other, her heart delighted. A lot.
He plunged into her with long even strokes, stretching her walls, hitting all the places inside that made her quiver.
His power, his control, were all intoxicating. She was a modern woman, educated equally with her brother. She shouldn’t love being putty in a man’s hands. Being molded for his pleasure. Powerless before his dominance.
