He covered her as she shivered. “Well, you seem determined to make it the second, but I have one little thing that makes me think I still have the upper hand.”
“And what’s that?” he asked, dipping his head to kiss along the side of her neck as he started to unfasten the spencer of her riding habit.
“You’re exactly where I want you to be.”
He lifted his head and flashed her a grin. “Little devil, I’m not even near where you want me to be yet. But I will be.”
They didn’t talk anymore then. He kissed her and she melted under him, giving over the control to him, at least for now. He took it adeptly, removing her spencer, finding all the hidden hooks and buttons of her specially designed dresses.
“This chemisette is absolutely lewd,” he said as he pressed a hand to the nearly sheer fabric. “I adore it.”
She smiled. “It does take some shifting and twisting to make sure I’m not flashing a nipple while I’m out riding.” When he arched a brow she swatted him lightly. “A horse, you arse, a horse. Though I admit sometimes I have let the flesh slip a little. Given a few gentlemen and ladies a show when they’ve needed it.”
He pushed what remained of her dress away and she shifted her hips so he could tug the fabric out from under her. He bent his head to her breast, still covered, albeit barely, in her chemisette. He cupped the naked flesh that peeked out around the sides and sucked her through the fabric. She shut her eyes and let herself be washed away by the stroke of his tongue, the feel of his hands squeezing just perfectly. He was unfastening her, pushing the last little bit of cloth away and then his mouth was on bare skin.
She pushed her hands into his thick hair, just as she had downstairs when they’d began. He made a little sound against her flesh, one of pleasure and surrender. Oh yes, he might be on top but she knew she was still in some level of control.
He slid his mouth lower, down her stomach, across her hip. Like he had the night before, he stroked his cheek against her thigh, only this time he was more freshly shaven and the skin was smooth. She wasn’t sure which version she liked better.
And then it didn’t matter because he spread her legs wider and covered her sex with his mouth. She bucked against him immediately, her hand fisting in the same hair she’d been threading through a moment before. He laughed against her and the vibration only made everything sharper.
Many of her lovers had been willing, if not eager, to have her like this, but not a one had ever been so damned good at it. Silas Windham was a virtuoso at the act, massaging her outer lips just perfectly, teasing her clitoris just to the edge of the limit and then easing back to keep her there. Without rushing, for over half an hour he ate her like a man starved, he worked her like it was his vocation, and when she was thrashing and begging and whimpering his name, he looked up from his feast and flicked his tongue just right and she fell.
The orgasm was enormous after such a long preamble and her back bowed off the bed as he slid two fingers inside her clenching sheath and worked her through the crisis. Her heels dug into the mattress and her vision blurred as she keened and cried out because she had no choice but to do so. He had drawn all the wild from her, celebrated it and released it into the world. When her body finally stopped convulsing, when she collapsed back into a boneless puddle on his pillows, she felt the strangest sense of peace.
He moved back up her body, his big hand cupping her hip as he kissed her again. He tasted of her, sweet and salty, earthy and powerful.
“Who was in control again?” he murmured against her lips.
She shivered. “I’ll grant that it was most definitely you, Silas.”
“Good. It will be your turn next time.” He shifted her a little, pushing her still-trembling legs wider with his hips as he settled onto her fully. “But for now, I think I’ll claim what’s mine by right of conquest.”
“Very much so,” she whimpered, and lifted against him when he reached between them and stroked the head of his hard cock back and forth against her sodden entrance.
He took her in one long stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her. The little earthquakes that she couldn’t control continued and he grunted her name against her neck as he started to rotate his hips. The taking was deceptively lazy and effortless, he moved just the barest amount.
But oh, what he did with those hips. She slid her hands down his back, letting her fingers dance along those gorgeous muscles, and cupped his backside. Together they worked on a rhythm, his pelvis hitting her swollen clitoris, her body massaging him with her pleasure. The quiet was filled with gasps and moans from both of them, with the slippery slide of their bodies together. The pleasure was building again, different than what she’d felt from his tongue, but just as good. This time when she came, he reared up and started to drive into her in earnest. She met him, her body shaking with release, with watching him as the control he wielded slowly cracked away and she was left with the wild animal beneath that seemed to match her so well.
He roared and pulled from her body, pumping over her skin with a few last strokes of his hand. Then he collapsed over her, his mouth finding hers, his hands holding her, their breath matching as the glow of what they’d shared fell over the quiet room.
* * *
How long they lay there, Arabella wasn’t certain. She dozed in his arms, coming in and out of the dreamy afterglow of a good fuck. He seemed to do the same, his hands sometimes tracing her, sometimes still as he breathed a little deeper and heavier. At some point she woke to him stroking between her legs with those lovely fingers and she’d come around them and his cock once more.
At last, though, she became more fully aware of the room around them, cast in fading firelight for the sun had set long ago.
“This room is even worse,” she said.
He was lying on his stomach, half-covering her with a muscular arm, and he lifted his head with a laugh. “Isn’t it? That portrait above the mantel.”
She looked over to the fire to find a portrait of the current Earl of Montague looking down his long nose at them. “Ugh,” she gasped, and held up a hand as if to block the view of him. “Who puts up a huge portrait of themselves staring at the bed?”
“Rather dirty of him, I think. Wanting to watch himself rut with whoever he brought here,” Silas said. “But honestly, I’m either going to remove it to an unused chamber or cover it with a sheet. Especially if you’re going to be here. If we’re going to have a third in this sparkling arrangement, it’s certainly not going to beMontague.”
“I agree,” she said, and began to trace the line of his chest. “Have you ever had a third?”
“Of course,” he said with a snort. “I’m not a monk.”
