“No. Let me.” He put his arms around her waist and drew her to him. Oh, how delightfully soft her short, curved body was. How perfectly she molded to him. Those warm breasts. How could he have never noticed her breasts before?
Come now, that was a lie. Of course, he had noticed her breasts before. When he was sixteen and obsessed with breasts and she was twelve and had just started budding. He remembered selfishly wishing her breasts would grow faster. And then she was thirteen and her breasts were more than buds. They were beautiful. Large in comparison to her height. Just slightly smaller than croquet balls.
But he had spent thirteen years acting like an older brother to her. He had scolded himself for letting his gaze linger. He had felt full of shame on the mornings he awoke after having spent in his sheets while dreaming of touching her breasts. Oddly, in his dreams, her breasts were not attached to her head or the rest of her body. But they were definitely her breasts. Or what he had imagined her breasts to be.
Thankfully, at age eighteen, just after he had become the Baron Danforth, he had had his first experience with an older woman and had been able to banish the young Lady Phoebe Finch from the part of his brain that managed his cock. With a great deal of success. Until this afternoon.
Because now her breasts were larger than croquet balls. But, of course, a great deal softer than croquet balls. When had that circumferential growth happened?
Her gown today was as modest as always, but her bosom had pushed up when he had pulled her to his own torso. Looking down, he could see the gorgeous shadow between her breasts which only served to highlight her voluptuousness. He raised his head and her face was there, inches from his. She was looking at him looking down at her breasts.
He kissed her then as he would kiss his mistress. A hard kiss to match his cock that pressed against her. Again, he felt her arms on his shoulders, her hands on his neck. And now the hands moved upward and slid over his pate.
This was a completely new sensation. No woman had ever touched his bald head.
Phoebe must be thinking of the Duke of Thornwick who sported a full head of golden curls. She was imagining running her fingers through Thornwick’s hair as she kissed George.
With that thought, he was overcome by the bestial darkness he had felt before. Now he let his hard kiss become a savage one and he forced his tongue into her mouth and clenched his fingers into her back, clamping her body against his with an even greater force.
She did not pull away from the invasion of his tongue or the tightening of his grip but made a little noise that sounded suspiciously like a yelp.
He broke the kiss. Her eyes were still closed.
“Oh, George,” she moaned. “Oh, George, do that again.”
“You cried out, Phee.”
She opened her eyes but her hands kept caressing his head. He almost wanted to moan himself with pleasure.Oh, my God.
Phoebe bit her lip. “I was surprised, that’s all. But if you do it again, I won’t be surprised and I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
He grunted. “Some men like their women to make noises.”
“Do you like noises?”
He grunted again, a sound that might be yes or no. In truth, he loved a woman to voice her arousal. Not the overblown, false shrieks of whores but the little sounds a woman seeking her own satisfaction might make. How else was he to know he was pleasing her before he stripped her down and got a feel or a glimpse of her quim? His own arousal was evident even while clothed, straining his trousers, but women needed to give clues, damn it.
“May I?” She took one of her hands off his head and placed it between their bodies. What the devil? She put her hand over the very evident arousal pushing at the fall of his trousers. “I want to feel it.”
He took a deep breath. He knew his height, his build, and his grave mien were intimidating to most people. Could he intimidate Phoebe? He spoke harshly. “Take your hand away.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed, but she did as he said. “You didn’t like it. I thought maybe you would since I could feel it was hard against my stomach.”
He cleared his throat. Their bodies were still together, his arms around her. She had returned the hand that had grasped his cock back to his head, and she continued to touch his scalp with long delicious strokes of her fingertips and then her palms rubbing and then her fingertips again. Involuntarily, his neck relaxed and he began rolling his head, following her hands.
Her touch was irresistible. Against his will, his eyes went to half-mast. “You know then . . . about a man’s . . . organ?”
“I know it gets hard when a man is aroused and it goes inside the woman when he beds her.”
“Yes.” His eyes were closed all the way now. What a sheer, unadulterated delight this was. He did not frequent brothels, preferring a series of mistresses, but he thought he might pay a visit to Madame Flora’s soon if only to pay a whore to rub his head.
“But men don’t like women to touch it.”
His eyes popped open. “What makes you say that?”
She faltered. “Y-you told me to take my hand off of it.”
He growled. “Your husband will not want you grabbing his cock on your wedding night. He’ll think you’re a trollop and will lose all respect for you.”
