Luckily, Mr.Dermott required very little input from him to continue his diatribe, so Malcolm began idly fantasizing about what he would like to do if he got Scarlett alone.Dear Lord, he imagined that he might sink to his knees and put his lips—
And then he felt a hand,herhand, on his leg.
He almost cried out in surprise.Thank God he did not.Because not only would it have attracted notice, but he would not have experienced what came next.
Because now Scarlett’s hand had found his cock.
“Mmm,” he murmured, unable to help himself.
Christ, was he really going to let her do this?
He was fully erect—and extremely sensitive.After their night together, he hadn’t been indulging in any self-pleasure.It had felt so insufficient when what he had really wanted was her.
She stroked him through the silk of his thin evening trousers.
He could feel far more than one would suspect.
He had borrowed these trousers from Philip at the beginning of the house party for formal occasions, and he had only worn them tonight.His brother had told him that he could keep them for the duration of the party—he would be wearing his more fashionable cream trousers.
At the time, he had thought the entire discussion completely coxcombical.
Now, depraved as he was, he was deeply grateful for the trousers.Because the slip and slide of Scarlett’s hand felt delicious over the silk.
“And so I said to my steward, if we care a damn about feeding the village this winter, we’ll grow radishes in the field we used to leave fallow after a big wheat harvest—” Mr.Dermott continued his recital of well-worn crop rotation truisms as Malcolm swelled in Scarlett’s hand.
From what he could hear, she was being treated to a similarly interminable monologue from Mr.Lambet on Sarah Siddons’s 1783 run at Drury Lane.
Scarlett found the head of Malcolm’s cock and ran her fingers over it.He suppressed a groan, his face heating.
He needed to remove her hand from his lap.All he needed to do was take his left hand and stay her own.
But he found himself unable to do it.It was too difficult when he did not know when he would be alone with her again.When it seemed possible that he would never hold her close again.
He knew he couldn’t climax at the bloody supper table.In the Parkhorne ballroom.But what was wrong with enjoying her touch?He certainly didn’t need to attend to what Mr.Dermott was saying.The problem with owning two thousand acres was that it tended to make a man think that qualification alone made him an expert on farming.
Scarlett’s fingers traced the head of his cock and sent a dangerous bolt of pleasure through him.He reached for his wine and took a sip, hoping to gain some composure.Instead, he nearly choked on the liquid when she stroked him with her palm.
She followed that leisurely rhythm—she could only move so fast given that they wereat table talking to others—and his pleasure built.
“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, needing some outlet for the pleasure he felt.
“That’s right, my friend,” Mr.Dermott said, taking Malcolm’s sound for an affirmation of his statement about barley.“Although the ryegrass works wonders too.”
Ryegrass, yes, he thought.He was distantly aware that such a thing existed.
But the only thing that he really cared about at this moment was that Scarlett not stop.
No, he told himself, he was insane.He needed to stop her.He reached under the table and stilled her wrist.
But to his surprise, she merely continued stroking him, and the added pressure of his hand on hers only enhanced the riotously good feeling.
He knew, intellectually, that this course led only in one direction.But still he did not stop her.He seemed unable.Not with the pleasure of her strokes rioting through him and his cock begging him to let her continue.
He was going to be damned.
So instead of stopping her with his hand, he began to lead her onward, guiding her softly towards bringing him off.
He closed his eyes for a mere fraction of a second—the pleasure was so intense that he needed to work to keep his expression neutral.
