Soon, his lips found her core. His tongue slowly licked her womanhood, leaving her trembling. She moaned.
Should I feel this way? Should we be doing this?
Her mind raced, panicking as the pleasure continued to build. His tongue felt so good, licking her as if she were dessert. She felt the fast-pulsing vibrations as he flicked his tongue against her nub.
She was at heaven’s gate. Pressure built in her belly. She needed release. Moans escaped her mouth, but that was not enough. She wanted to release every bit of tension that was coiling in her lower abdomen.
Peter rubbed the flat of his tongue over her sex, and she squealed. Her body was no longer hers at that moment; it was his. She could not control what he was doing, but she knew she liked all of it.
“Your Grace,” she gasped as he sucked on her.
Her hands flew in the air, searching for something to hold onto. She clutched at the bed, feeling the soft quilt slide through her clawing fingers.
“Peter,” she shouted as he spread her legs wider and continued to lick her attentively.
She watched his head bobbing up and down. This was something that only Peter could make her feel.
He continued his quest, stroking her with his tongue. Lavinia moaned his name over and over, wanting to feel this good always.
This was a bliss she had never experienced. One she had never even known existed, but now she understood that if the Duke of Pemberton had not come to the house party this week, she would have lived the rest of her life without feeling his touch, without tasting such pleasure, and without knowing that she was wholly and truly adored.
Lavinia knew that this was something she would want more; it was something that she would miss. And she knew that there was no way she’d let go of him.
Not now, not ever.
CHAPTER 17
What will become of us now?
The sun had long since disappeared. Peter did not know the time, but judging by the face of the moon, which peered mournfully back at him, and the fact that he could only hear a faint murmur in the hall, he guessed the time was well after midnight.
The clinking of champagne glasses, the laughter, and the rustling of dresses were nothing but echoes now as guests slowly retreated to their chambers. In the coming days, they would all leave, returning to their ordinary lives. And that included him.
After he and Lavinia had enjoyed their moments of peace and quiet together, she had crept back to her room. He had stood in the doorway and watched her tiptoe up the stairs, and then, feeling rather restless, he had decided to leave the house and go out into the gardens.
He was thankful for the solitude at that moment. He was always good at concealing what went on in his mind. It was a skill that he had found ultimately useful. When everyone was occupied with their appearances, he was at home or in his townhouse with one mistress or another, leading a blessedly quiet life.
But as he stared out at the gardens, his mind raced with thoughts of what had just happened. The ball had been grand, but the moments he had spent with Lavinia were ripped right out of his fantasies, something that must have been a dream.
The memory of Lavinia—her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, her loud moans, and the incredible heat between them—rose to the forefront of his mind.
His hands tightened on the lapels of his waistcoat, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he fought to keep his emotions in check. He had almost lost control last night, and it had taken every ounce of restraint to pull himself back from the edge. Lavinia was no stranger to his desires; he had wanted her from the first moment he saw her, and now he could admit that. The deep, gnawing need he felt for her was not like anything he had ever experienced.
He was no stranger to pleasure either. He had his share of mistresses—the rumors were true. In that way, partially at least, his reputation as a rake was well-earned. However, he had never felt this way before. He had been with actresses, married ladies, and even housemaids for months, years in some cases, but none had shaken him the way Lavinia had. It was not just physical desire. He was certain it was something more.
She’s extraordinary.
Peter exhaled slowly as he crouched and brushed his fingers across the cool grass. The feel of her body against his, the warmth of her skin, the way her breath hitched in her throat as he roamed lower, all resounded in his mind. The feel of her under his palms was spectacular, but her taste—his head almost exploded at the thought—was divine.
He cursed under his breath, frustrated by how vividly the memory clung to him.
He could still feel the silk of her gown as he had slid her skirt up to her waist, the way she had trembled when he kissed her inner thighs. The sounds of the party had been distant, muffled, entirely forgotten inside his bedchamber. He had kissed her, pulled her close, and at that moment, all the restraint he prided himself on had nearly shattered. Her soft gasps, her arms clinging to him, had nearly undone him.
He had wanted to lose himself in her, and it had taken everything in him to stop before he took something from her that he knew he could never give back.
But the truth was, it had not been enough. Even as he forced himself to step back, to catch his breath, and to press one last gentle kiss to her neck, the need had still burned in his veins. And in that moment, standing in the empty garden with the echoes of the ball still lingering in the air, he felt that same desire rising again. A desire he could not ignore.
But what terrified him was not just the depth of his physical attraction to her—it was how much he needed her. He needed her in a way that was unfamiliar and unsettling. It was more than lust, more than the fleeting pleasure he was accustomed to experiencing.
