He ate her cunny with the hunger he’d suppressed for weeks. Spreading her petals, he tongued her slit up and down before circling her entrance. When she was moaning, her hands gripping the cushions, he slid the tip of his middle finger into her hole.
Goddamn, she was tight. Exquisitely so. But she was also slick from his licking and her earlier climax; when he saw no sign of pain from her, he pushed in until he was knuckle-deep.
She gasped his name.
“All right, love?”
“Yes… yes…” She looked dazed with desire.
He added another finger and stirred in a motion that would remove any flimsy barrier that might mark her asvirgo intacto. He thrust firmly, simulating the fucking of a cock, sweat gathering beneath his collar as her pussy gripped his digits with lush insistence. Devil and damn, to feel that snug heat sheathed around his prick…
Her thighs trembled, her head lolling against the back of the sofa. He could feel her crisis approaching; it would be so easy to free his throbbing erection and bury himself inside her. To give in to the desire that raged between them. Lust warred with rationality: he reminded himself that, for her, desire had a purpose, a goal.
And that goal isn’t you… not unless you convince her otherwise.
After one last thrust that pushed a moan from her lips, he pulled out.
Her head popped up, her cheeks flushed and breathing uneven. “Why did you…”
“That should take care of your maidenhead,” he told her. “There’s no bleeding, so I suspect yours might have already been dispatched by horse-riding or the like. That’s common for young ladies, you know.”
From her blank look, she didn’t.
He rose, plucking up her chemise. “I’ll help you get dressed. You’ve been here too long already.”
“But don’t you want to…finish?” She wetted her lips, looking so disappointed that he was sorely tempted to do just that. “I don’t mind if you want to. That is, I came fully prepared to…”
“Lie with me?” he said mildly.
Her head bobbed, and damn if the little minx didn’t sneak a look at his groin. To be fair, that part of his anatomy did command attention. The bulge strained the placket of his trousers, stretching the grey wool to dangerous proportions; only excellent tailoring—and steely self-control—held him in check.
“I know this was a favor for me,” she said haltingly, “but I had assumed that you would gain some pleasure out of it too. Now it all seems rather… one-sided.”
“Do you want me to make love to you, Primrose?” he said evenly.
She bit her lip. “I think… I do.”
Her aching whisper almost undermined his resolve. Almost.
“Let me know when you are certain.” Pulling her to her feet, he said casually, “Arms up, sweetheart.” Looking adorably befuddled, she obeyed, and he pulled the chemise over her head. He followed with her corset, deftly tying the laces. “And let me be clear: there is only one circumstance under which I’ll make love to you.”
Her brow puckered. “What circumstance is that?”
“When I take you, it won’t be a one-time affair. It won’t be because you have to rid yourself of your virginity or because you’re simply curious about being bedded. It won’t even be because you trust me to make the experience good for you.”
“Pray tell, what reasonwouldmove you?” she said with a touch of tartness.
“I’ll make love to you when you wantme,” he said. “When you can’t stop thinking about me kissing you, touching you, my cock filling your sweet pussy.” He noted with satisfaction her deep blush and flaring pupils and gave her corset a final tug. “I’ll make love to you when you admit I’m the only man who can give you what you need.”
“Rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Her voice had a breathy edge.
He buttoned up her gown and set her bonnet on her head. “I’m honest. When you’re ready to be, send word to me.” He twitched the veil in place over her astonished face. “Do us both a favor, sunshine: don’t keep me waiting.”
Chapter Eighteen
Two days later, Rosie descended the steps of the Revelstoke townhouse in a distinctly grumpy mood. She could have blamed it on the indignity of the physician’s examination she’d endured that morning. At least he’d confirmed the consummation of her marriage. Mr. Mayhew, Daltry’s executor, had returned to Town and set up a meeting tomorrow to finalize Daltry’s affairs; she couldn’t wait to put the grim business behind her.
Yet her surliness wasn’t due to her marriage. She placed the blame for her mood squarely on the broad shoulders of Andrew Corbett. She couldn’t get him out of her thoughts, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he’d done that on purpose.
