“You’re doing a damned”—she gulped for air—”damned fine job of it already!”
He laughed quietly. “And I’ve hardly begun.” His fingers traced feathery circles over her ankle before drifting upward.
Joan held very still, every breath rippling through her like a strong breeze through the leaves. She couldn’t see anything but his face, dark and focused in the moonlight. She couldn’t feel anything but his fingers stroking lightly up her shin ... now at her knee ... now climbing her thigh, pausing to move aside the cloth of her pantalets...
“By my bloody eyes,” she gasped, her body arcing as he parted the damp curls and laid his thumb on a spot that seemed to burst at his touch.
“God Almighty,” he said, his voice shaking. “You’re so soft—so wet—” His thumb circled and rubbed, and Joan twisted in a pleasure so sharp, it was almost pain.
“Stop,” she whimpered. “What is that?”
“Not yet.” But his touch gentled, until she had the sensation of being coaxed along, guided. She held still for a while, until some primal feeling made her hips rock and sway of their own accord. The shudders of pleasure built anew. He pulled her closer with a wordless murmur, kissing her breast again. Joan sighed and melted against him, letting him drown her apprehensions in the wicked stroke of his fingers between her legs and in the delicious attention he lavished on her bared bosom.
“By all the gods, I want to make love to you.” He kissed her again. She cupped her hands around his jaw and held him to her, marveling at the sheen of perspiration on his face.
“What do you mean?”
She could feel his pulse hammering under her palms. Tristan gazed deep into her eyes, his own gaze feverishly bright, as he slowly probed and then inserted his finger inside her body.
“I want to lodge myself here,” he whispered. His finger withdrew and then slid back in. Joan could hardly breathe. “Again and again.” He repeated his earlier action, sliding higher and deeper than before. His thumb rolled over that locus of nerves, and her knees almost gave out. “Until you scream my name in the pinnacle of pleasure and I expire inside you.” Again he penetrated her, but this time a little harder, and his thumb pressed in time with the stroke.
The blood roared through her veins. Her body shook. She should say no, but ... She was in love with him. No matter how many times she told herself he wasn’t the sort of man a girl like her married, she loved him. No matter what her mother thought of him, she wanted him. She had pictured him making love to her as wantonly as Lady Constance’s lovers did to her, and now it was happening. And just as she had dreamed, he was looking at her as though she was the most beautiful, desirable woman in the world. For the first time in her life she felt the thrill of being wanted—madly and passionately—and if it made her wicked to revel in that, then she was glad to be wicked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Tristan.”
He went very still, except for the heaving of his chest. “What?”
She nodded, even though the action almost made her lose her balance. “Yes. I want you.”
He quaked. She felt it. Then he slipped his hand out from between her legs. She was shocked at how bereft she felt by that, but he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet, carrying her to the sofa, where he leaned her back against a pile of cushions and dropped to his knees between her parted legs.
“You need to see how desperately I want you.” He stripped off his jacket and unbuttoned his trousers.
Joan gaped as he shoved down his trousers and smallclothes and bared his male member to her gaze. It looked enormous, jutting fiercely from his body. It was too dim to tell much detail, but it was darker than the skin of his face, and as she stared in fascination, it twitched and surged upward all on its own.
“It stands at attention, insistent and distracting, whenever you come near me.” He folded his shirt out of the way and reached for her hand. “It knows no reason, no caution, no restraint, only that you make it rise, hard and furious, every time you simper at me or deliver a stinging set-down or cling to my arm because you fear the balloon is about to crash.” He laid her fingers on his member, and Joan’s eyes widened even more. It was hot and smooth, thick and long and so very hard.
“It was like this in the balloon?”
“Not quite so frantic, but ready at a moment’s notice.” He exhaled, moving his hips so that her hand glided along his length. “You know it was like this in my bathing room.”
She managed a nod. Yes, she’d felt it, although she’d had no real idea how much larger it would look.
Slowly he drew up her skirts. “And if I make love to you, it will fit here.” He touched her again, sliding his finger as high inside her as it would go. Joan shuddered, spreading her knees wider without conscious thought and flexing her spine to bear down on that invading finger. Dear heaven—if it felt this good with just his finger inside her, how much better would it be when he thrust his prick inside her? Every prurient story and poem she had ever read in the secrecy of her bed ran through her mind in a jumble. Stories of satisfaction and pleasure so extreme, both man and woman barely survived it. Stories of men driven joyfully mad from thrusting themselves inside their lovers. Of women delighting in every penetration until they screamed and almost died away in bliss when their lovers gave them a climax, something so amazing there weren’t enough adjectives to adequately describe it. And so far, everything seemed to indicate the stories were true. She did feel a throbbing ache inside her. She wanted him to make love to her, over and over again until she fell senseless with pleasure.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Show me.”
“God, darling, yes.” His finger withdrew, and then he pressed two fingers inside her, pushing harder. Joan felt a tightness, a slight burning, and she squirmed, but the discomfort faded as he stroked her again, gently working his fingers in and out of her. “I want to make it easier for you,” he whispered, dipping his head once more to her breasts.
She gave herself up to him, reveling in every touch of his mouth on her skin. She clutched his head to her breast, rocking her hips to meet every stroke of his fingers.
“Just like that,” he muttered. “Yes—wait—now—” He reared back, yanking her hips so that she slid down among the cushions until her hips were almost off the sofa. Panting, he took himself once more in his hand before setting the blunt knob against her throbbing opening where his fingers had just been. “Push,” he rasped.
She arched her back a little, letting her weight slip toward him. At the same moment he pushed forward, and he slipped inside her, stretching her. He met her gaze as if seeking reassurance. “Again,” he said in the same dark, velvet tone.
Joan pressed down at the same moment he bore forward. The pressure between her legs grew keener, less pleasurable. “Tristan?” she said uncertainly.
“I know.” He laid his hand on her belly and thumbed aside the curls covering the place where his body met hers. “Let me help ... just feel ...” He spoke soothingly but there was a raw undercurrent to his voice.
