Page 43 of The Luckiest Lady in London

He, on the other hand, watched only her face. The size of her breasts was quite irrelevant—what excited him was the transparency of her desire, the depth of her hunger, and the thoroughness of her infatuation.

Her skin, however, was rather exceptionally fine-grained and smooth beneath his fingers. And the expectancy in her eyes, that tinge of nervousness, was most gratifying—she wanted to please him with her body.

With almost a sense of noblesse oblige, he glanced down.

Somewhere in the back of his mind was an almost inaudible voice, reminding him that he had lost his objectivity where she was concerned, and therefore ought to temper his reaction with a healthy dose of skepticism.

But he wasn’t listening. All he heard was the sudden roar of blood in his veins. And all he saw was perfection, sheer, absolute perfection.

Small breasts, yes, but high, firm, and marvelously shaped, with the most beautiful nipples he had ever seen, rosy and most eagerly erect. His mouth went dry. His hand reached out and caught one nipple, so firm, yet so incredibly soft and satiny.

His heart pounded. His breaths turn ragged. And he became so hard, so fast, he was light-headed with this southward rush of blood.

He looked back at her face. Did he used to plan, step-by-step, a watertight seduction of this miraculous creature? He must have. He vaguely recalled things he meant to do to her, words he meant to whisper in her ears.

But the rawness that had overtaken him made him incapable of such finesse. His hand behind her nape, he yanked her to him and kissed her. Ravaged her. Somewhere inside he knew that such pure devouring was all wrong for a first kiss. But she didn’t seem to mind. Her hands dug into his scalp; her lips fastened upon his as if she were trapped underwater and he the reed that brought her precious air.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted and carried her to bed. Still without breaking the kiss, he rid her of the combination altogether. Greedily he touched her, incapable of strategy, or even tactics. All he wanted was more. More of her heart-stoppingly smooth skin, more of her intoxicatingly sweet mouth, more of her unbearably supple bottom.

His fingers slipped between her thighs—and the grunt of helpless lust he heard was his own: She was as ready as if he had been preparing her for hours. Days.

The entire Season had been one excruciatingly drawn-out loveplay.

His lips never leaving hers, he touched her in that secret place. She moaned; she writhed; she kissed him with a desperate fervor. Then suddenly she was crying out, her body tensing.

A heartbeat later he was deep inside her, filling her with his essence, convulsing with a pleasure that turned him in-side out.

The tremors of his paroxysm lasted and lasted, draining him to the last drop—or so it seemed. Yet he found himself still rock hard, still beside himself with the need to possess the delicious woman beneath him.

He kissed her cheek, her lips, her chin. He did not neglect her throat or her shoulders. And at last he tasted her delicate nipples. The moans he drew from her made him thrust into her with the force of a battering ram.

She gasped.

He forced his lower body to hold utterly still. His unsteady hand caressed her hair; his lips pressed into the tenderness just beneath her jawline. She smelled faintly of flowers, of fresh, dew-covered petals.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” His voice was hoarse, nothing like how he usually sounded.

And his eyes were tightly shut. Dimly he remembered that he’d meant to look his fill of her as he brought her to one trembling peak after another. But the sensations of her person were all he could handle; the sight of it would undo him altogether.

“I never want you to stop,” she whispered, kissing his ear as she spoke, jolting him with another surge of lust. “Never.”

Her hands gripped his arms. Her thighs parted wider beneath him. And dear God, she lifted her hips, as if trying to draw him deeper.

The pleasure of her—he was mindless with it. He invaded her again and again, her whimpers of pleasure a fire in his blood. Her name escaped his throat; he could not stop telling her how exquisite she was and how much he craved her.

When her body tightened voluptuously around his cock, he lost any and all control he might have still possessed. And gave himself up to the most explosive pleasure he had ever known.

* * *

The night was nothing of what Louisa had anticipated—and everything she could have hoped for.

Knowing him, she had prepared herself to be the willing but hapless mouse in a cat-and-mouse game. He would tease and torment her to the limit of her arousal—and probably make her beg for everything along the way: kisses, touches, any kind of satisfaction.

But this unbridled lover who came out of nowhere was so much more gratifying for her vanity.

And the things he said to her. Some of the words she had never heard in her life—and none of them she had expected to pass his urbane lips. So raunchy, dirty, and, well, raw.

So she could drive him out of his mind—and with her puny chest, no less.