A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(44)

His lips took hers in a passionate kiss. Bel’s fingers curled into fists. The hairpins bit into her left palm. How absurd, that she was still holding them, but what else could she do? Should she break the kiss to say, Dear, sweet husband, I know you’ve been waiting for me for a very long time, but can I beg you to wait a moment longer while I dispose of these hairpins?

No, of course not. She would not ask him to wait, not a moment longer. She would allow him to kiss her, just as deeply as he wished. And she would kiss him back, stroking his tongue with hers—because he made a little growl of approval when she did so, and Bel craved his approval even more than she craved his kiss. He was proud of her, he’d said. And even if he had told her so several times already, she couldn’t hear it—or feel it—enough. His hands moved to the front of her dressing gown, untying the simple ribbon bow and drawing the two sides apart. With deft fingers, he dispatched the row of tiny buttons dividing her nightgown. One, two, three, four … Bel lost count when his mouth broke away from hers to trail urgent kisses along her jaw and down her throat. His fingertips brushed her breastbone as he worked the buttons loose, one after another—and that unbearable, heavy ache swelled her br**sts.

Bel squeezed her eyes shut as he parted the sides of her nightgown, exposing her bosom. She could feel him staring at her chest, her ni**les tightening under his gaze. But she would gladly forgive him a lifetime of lurid glances, if only he would touch them. And, oh. Oh, at last. He did.

Someone gave a ragged sigh. Bel wasn’t sure if it had originated in his chest or hers. She opened her eyes to see his strong, sculpted hands cupping her br**sts, lifting them, taking their ponderous weight from her frame. Oh, heaven. It was like bathing in the sea, buoyant and weightless. Her dark, swollen ni**les jutted out for attention, and he brushed his thumbs over the straining tips. Twin jolts of pleasure raced to her core.

“So beautiful,” he murmured.

Bel resisted the impulse to disagree. Her br**sts always looked grotesquely large and indecent to her, but in his hands they looked—not beautiful, exactly. But as though they fit. As though they were just right. The heavy globes were the perfect size for his fingers to hold, to lift, to shape. Her large, dark areolas seemed expressly fashioned to wedge in the crook of his thumb and forefinger as he ever-so-gently squeezed.

Bel gasped as he bent his head and took her taut, aching nipple into his mouth. She was a perfect fit there, too. Wild sensation swirled through her as he licked and sucked. There she went, melting again. Damp heat surged between her thighs, and she clamped them together. Toby transferred his attentions to the other breast, working dark, dangerous magic with his lips and tongue. All the while, his hand groped for the hem of her nightgown. With rough movements, he gathered the fabric up to her knee, and then his hand encircled her bare thigh. The air in the room grew thin. No matter how her lungs worked, Bel couldn’t draw enough of it.

“Isabel.” His brow rested on her chest. “Let me touch you there.”

How could she refuse? It didn’t seem possible to accomplish what she knew they must accomplish without some part of him touching her there. But her panic built as his hand crept slowly higher, up the sensitive slope of her inner thigh, knowing that he would most certainly discover—

He groaned as his fingers reached her cleft. “You’re so wet.”

To her surprise, he didn’t sound appalled, but pleased. Approving. His fingers rubbed against her, and Bel gave a sharp cry. She couldn’t help it. The sensation was so intense. The hairpins bit into her palm as she struggled for control.

He kissed her, stifling her next unwilling moan. “I knew it would be like this,” he said between kisses, his fingers rubbing her more firmly. More quickly. “You’re so serious, my darling. Always so serious. But not here, not with me. Here, I knew you would be so passionate. So free.”

No, no, she wanted to protest. I’m a woman of faith and principle. I refuse to be ruled by my passions. That way lies madness.

But then with a single finger, he parted her folds and slipped inside her. Inside her. The feeling was … shocking. Glorious. Incompatible with thought, much less conversation. A hot, restless longing built as he stroked her relentlessly, inside and out. The sensation was not wholly unfamiliar. Sometimes in the night Bel woke with this same dull ache between her legs. And she’d learned years ago that if she rolled over and ground her hips against the bed, first it got a bit worse, but then it got a bit better—until it broke into pieces and mercifully went away.

But it was never like this. Never this bad. Never this good.

Without ceasing his sweet torment, Toby sank to the floor and knelt in front of her, spreading her legs. It seemed wrong, in so many ways: him kneeling before her, her thighs splayed in this lewd posture, the manner in which her most intimate places were revealed to his gaze, to his touch …

To his mouth.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Never this bad. Never this good. It was too much, too much.

“Toby.” She wriggled away from him, but his hand tightened over her thigh. “Toby, please. Don’t you want to take your pleasure now?”

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” He licked her over and over, so very lightly. And sensation detonated in her each time, destroying her presence of mind. She understood why her mother had gone mad from passion. With each tender caress, he pushed her closer to some terrible brink of sanity. She would shatter apart. She would never be whole again.