Lady Gone Wicked (Wicked Secrets)(46)

“It’s only muslin.” He wished it were the finest silk from China, that it might better caress her skin. He cleaned her other cheek, her forehead, her nose. “You have cake in your eyelashes, angel.”

She lowered her lids, allowing him to draw the cloth over her eyes. He worked gently, taking care not to unmoor even a single lash. There was a smudge of chocolate by the corner of her mouth. He kissed it clean. Her lips trembled slightly, but he did not touch them.

“Give me your hands,” he ordered.

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him, and then at her hands still folded in her lap. With a sigh, she acquiesced, holding them out to him.

He tugged off the soiled gloves one fingertip at time, then tossed them aside. He studied the small hands in his and could not help but laugh. Around each wrist, where the glove had ended and skin began, was a ring of icing.

He began with the left, raising it to his lips. “Chocolate,” he murmured. He licked again. “Vanilla. Strawberry. But what is this green bit, here?” His lips closed around the spot and he sucked gently. “Ah, mint. Thank God. I was afraid it might be broccoli.”

Adelaide laughed, and his heart soared. It had been scarcely a quarter hour since she had entered his carriage, and already he had made himself useful. She was at least slightly cleaner and her spirits had lightened enough for laughter. That was good, very good.

He turned his attention to her right wrist, licking and kissing until no traces of icing remained. He released her hand and leaned back to consider what to clean next. White patches of icing clung to her hair, but he could do naught about that. Most of the mess was now confined to her frock.

“What should we do with your dress?” he asked.

She glanced down at herself. “Take it off.”

His whole being throbbed with her unexpected answer. “Turn around, then.”

She did as she was instructed, presenting him with a neat row of pearl buttons down her back. One by one, he slipped the pearls from their moorings, until at last her dress fell from her shoulders in a silky glide. Her head bowed as she watched it go. He leaned forward and kissed the nape of her neck, where no crumb of cake or icing had reached, but because who could resist such an offering?

Not he.

His lips lingered a moment longer, then strayed lower to nibble along the edge of her shift.

“Nick,” she said, her voice cracking.

He remembered then that he had only meant to give her what she needed. She had not, specifically, said she needed his kisses. He had gone too far. Now she would tell him his services were no longer required, that she wished to go home, and perhaps send him off to bother Lady Claire, as she was wont to do.

She did none of those things.

Instead, one arm snaked behind his head. Her fingers grazed the back of his neck before plunging into his hair. Holding him steady in her firm grip, she turned and brought his mouth to hers. He yielded instantly, parting his lips to give her entry, allowing her to plunder as she would.

And it was plunder. Her kiss was bruising and insistent, demanding that he surrender the very soul from his body. Well, she could have it, such as it was. Anything she wanted, she could have.

He would have been happy to stay locked in her grasp forever, but she broke the kiss and released him. He made a small noise of protest—but he would not beg, he would not. Let her use him in any way she saw fit. Let her leave him hard and wanting, so long as she was satisfied. Let her— Sweet Jesus, she was removing more clothing.

She stood, slightly stooped so as not to knock her head against the roof, one hand braced on his shoulder to keep her balance in the swaying carriage. Her dress, which had gathered around her waist, slid down her hips, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. She kicked it away to join her gloves on the opposite side of the carriage.

Then slowly, so slowly he thought he would go mad from it, she pulled her shift down, down, down, to reveal her bosom.

“My breasts—”

God, yes, there they were, delectably strewn with strawberry icing.

“So filthy,” he murmured, one arm going around her waist to tug her closer. He widened his legs and she stepped into the space. “Shall I clean them for you, angel?” He brushed the back of his fingers along the undercurve of her breast. Already his mouth was watering for her taste.

But he would wait for her consent.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

He gripped her hips with both hands and delved in, drawing his tongue between her breasts in one long, glorious sweep. She shivered violently. Her hands went to his shoulders, and he felt the bite of her nails. He could not help but smile. She had always, in their long-ago lovemaking, thoroughly enjoyed his enjoyment of her breasts.

She tasted of sweet strawberry and salty skin—a delicious combination that went straight to his groin. Most of the icing was concentrated on her breastbone and the gentle swell of her chest, so there he focused his efforts. He ignored the hardened peaks begging for his attention. Well, no—not ignored, since he throbbed with awareness. And each time a delicate bud bumped against his jaw or grazed his cheek, his blood pounded a little harder.

When he had laved the last of the icing, he let out a slow, unsteady exhale. He rested his cheek against her breast—still a rosy pink, but from his ministrations rather than icing—and tried to bring his racing heart to a more sedate rhythm.

Her fingers stroked through his hair. “You are not yet finished with me.”