To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(71)

“But…?” she breathed against his mouth.

“I’m ready for my next lesson,” he said, and claimed her mouth with his.

He had a wild, fleeting thought that he would never grow tired of kissing her. And that was madness, of course—it had to be madness, because there was not a woman of his acquaintance that he’d not eventually grown tired of kissing. He saw no reason that this trend should change now. And yet, somehow, it seemed impossible to him that he should ever grow weary of the warmth of her mouth, of the soft little sigh she made at the back of her throat as she settled more deeply into the kiss, of the taste of her, of the feeling of her tongue tangling with his own.

One of his hands sank into her thick, glorious hair while the other reached for her waist, undoing the laces there and a moment later shoving her wrapper from her shoulders and down her arms to pool at her feet on the floor. His own banyan followed a moment later, and he pressed himself more firmly against her, the heat of their skin separated now only by the fine material of his shirt and her nightgown. He felt her hand scrabbling at his waist, and in the next instant it had worked its way beneath his shirt, resting flat against his abdomen and making it very hard for him to concentrate on anything happening above that particular region of his body. A moment later, she was tugging at the hem of the shirt, and he stepped back to pull it over his head in one fluid motion and toss it aside.

And now, he did allow himself a moment of male smugness, because the way she was staring at his naked chest was nothing if not flattering. Had it been any of his previous bed partners, he would have offered a seductive “Like what you see?” accompanied by the requisite arching of one devilish brow, but he rather thought that any so blatant attempt at seduction with this particular lady would result in nothing more than laughter on her part—and laughter did, at key moments, have a rather deflating effect upon the proceedings.

So instead, he merely closed the distance between them once more, seized her about the waist, and resumed where they had left off a moment before.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Diana asked breathlessly, “Should we move to the bed?” After a moment of lazy incomprehension—his mind never did seem able to move terribly swiftly in these sorts of situations—he nodded in agreement, and shortly thereafter found himself braced on one elbow as he slowly drew her nightgown over her head. Each inch of skin that he revealed was more enticing than the last: her long legs; the nip of her waist; the full breasts that had occupied no inconsiderable amount of his attention over the years. At last she was naked before him, and with a bit of hasty maneuvering—and an awkward sort of high leg kick that would not perhaps go down in his seduction archives as one of his finer moments—he, too, was in a similar state of undress.

Normally, at this juncture in the proceedings, he would have plunged forward boldly—a hand between her legs, or perhaps his mouth, depending on how things were going; the quick application of a French letter; and then, bliss—but tonight, he hesitated. He met her eyes for a moment, feeling more uncertain than he had at any point since he’d been an actual virgin, and she smiled.

“Good,” she said lightly, “you’re already learning.” His confusion must have been evident upon his face, because she added, “It’s not a race. We’ve made it this far in relatively little time; there’s no harm in pausing the proceedings for a bit.”

“I find it a trifle difficult to be patient at the moment,” he said through gritted teeth, and her eyes flicked downward. She met his gaze again a moment later and her mouth curved into a very feline sort of smile.

“Shall I take pity on you?” she murmured, and a moment later her small hand curved around him, making him jerk involuntarily in her grip. “Is that better?” she asked innocently, blinking at him. He resisted the urge to moan with great difficulty, and instead thrust into her palm again, the heat and friction of her hand so maddening that it was all he could do to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. She tightened her hold on him and stroked him slowly; he reached down and seized her hand, adjusting her grip, showing her the pace he liked. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and before long his arm gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto his side even as she rolled onto hers, allowing herself better access to the portion of his anatomy she was presently interested in.

At one point, she allowed her eyes to flick up to his face for a moment, gauging his reaction, before casting them back down once more, evidently satisfied with whatever she saw in his expression.

“I thought,” he managed to get out, after some indeterminate period of bliss.

“Mmm?” She gave an inquisitive hum, never removing her attention from the task at hand. Literally.

“I thought… Jesus Christ.” This time he did moan. “I thought you were supposed to be teaching me how to please you.”

“But doing this does please me,” she said, and there was a note of wonder to her voice—the pleased surprise at learning something new about herself. He would have enjoyed watching her make this realization, had he not been focusing all of his attention on not spilling in her hand.

He pulled himself away from her a moment later, his chest heaving. “Enough,” he said on a gasp, lacing her fingers through his own to ensure that they could enact no further mischief. He kissed her, effectively silencing any protest she would have made, and his own hands began their steady journey south. They were delayed for some time at her breasts, it was true—and who could blame them, really?—but eventually made their way as far as her navel, and then lower still, until one hand slid into the slick warmth between her legs and began to move.