He gave a hoarse, strangled chuckle. “Barely a moment after the door closed behind you.”
She laughed. Perhaps that explained why he hadn’t walked her to the door. She’d taken it as a minor discourtesy, but maybe he’d just been beside himself with lust. “I like that. I like the thought of you pleasuring yourself while imagining me.”
“It happens with mathematical regularity.”
The fact that he was still able to conjure words like “mathematical” meant she hadn’t yet achieved her aim of rendering him stupefied with pleasure. She increased the firmness of her grip, which made him gasp, and sped up until she drew a groan from his lips. “Tell me what you like. Faster? Slower?”
“Anything,” he rasped. “Anything. Just—just touch me.”
I can do that. She kept going, maintaining a steady rhythm. He released one hand from behind his head and grabbed a fistful of the couch cushion, knuckles whitening.
“Is this like you imagined it?” she murmured as she worked his cock.
“Better,” he panted. “Your hand—so soft.”
With her other hand, she cupped her breast, allowing her thumb to swipe over her nipple. Tingles shot through her, everything more sensitive after her climax. “I liked it when you did this earlier.”
His pupils dilated, and he let out another groan.
“You’re getting close, aren’t you?” she asked, almost contemplatively.
He hissed something that might have been a “yes,” and then a garbled plea of “don’t stop.”
She didn’t, and continued her rhythm of firm strokes. A moment later, a tremor rippled through him. He moaned her name. His hand shot out to grip her wrist, clutching almost painfully as the climax roared through him.
A matching thrill made her heart speed up as she watched him. She drank in the sight of him, shuddering and lost to pleasure, like the finest wine.
When it subsided, he collapsed back against the pillows. His fair skin was flushed, dark hair in disarray with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked thoroughly shattered, and pride swelled in Lucretia’s chest. There was a singular satisfaction in doing that to a man, especially one as self-assured and controlled as Felix.
She found a clean napkin on the table and used it to gently wipe him and her hand.
“Come here,” he mumbled, the words slurred and indistinct. He clumsily moved over to make room for her on the couch.
She lowered herself down next to him, laying her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her.
“Stay the night,” he whispered in her ear.
She froze. That was the sort of thing that lovers did. Not people in a transactional relationship, who had negotiated an erotic education in return for a business truce.
This arrangement had no future. Even if they enjoyed each other for a month, or two, or six, it would come to an end eventually. Felix would no doubt marry some eligible maiden, and Lucretia had no desire for another husband.
So despite the considerable pleasure they could find with each other, maintaining some distance was paramount.
“No,” she breathed. “I must return to look after Marcus.”
“Of course.” His voice betrayed no regret at her rejection. “Let’s eat, and then I will have my steward escort you home.”
Chapter 22
Felix sat heavily on a stone bench, jaw aching. Marcus collapsed beside him and gulped down a cup of water. The boy had been steadily improving at boxing and had just managed to deal Felix a wicked blow to his jaw—though Felix had returned the favor with a strike to the shoulder that sent Marcus reeling into the dirt.
Though Lucretia had consented to boxing lessons being a part of Marcus’s apprenticeship, Felix didn’t fancy incurring her wrath if he were to permanently damage her son. He tried as best as he could to avoid sending Marcus home with any significant injuries like a broken nose, but sometimes he couldn’t avoid a split lip or bruised knuckles.
“You’re getting better,” Felix said, rewarded by the way Marcus’s face lit up.
“Really? I still feel like an elephant clomping around.”
“Your strikes are getting faster and more precise. You’re starting to build some muscle too.”
