A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(83)

Suddenly, she launched herself into his lap, hiking up her red silk skirts to straddle his hips. The sound of fabric ripping registered in his brain just an instant before his wife’s husky whisper: “I can’t wait that long.”

Oh, thank God.

Toby scarcely recognized the woman tugging impatiently at his cravat, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, scraping her teeth along his jaw. Was this truly his solemn, saintly wife? She was frenzied with passion and desire. She wanted him, just as desperately as he wanted her. They were fighting to get closer, kiss deeper, expose more skin to press against hot, damp skin. They ceased the tussle just long enough to unite against the common enemy of her skirts, hiking yards of silk and petticoats up to her waist until the fabric settled around them in a shimmering cloud. He grasped her hips and pulled her feminine core flush against his aching erection. A fierce groan rose from his chest. Straightening her spine, Isabel rode him eagerly, rocking her hips against his hard length again and again. Even through the layers of his smalls and trousers, she felt warm and soft and absolutely amazing.

So. Damn. Good.

She leaned forward, grasping the seatback behind him for leverage. And now her br**sts were thrust in his face with each rolling tilt of her hips. Yes, this passionate, lustful woman was indeed his wife. Toby would know these magnificent br**sts anywhere. He pressed his face into her cle**age, inhaling deeply, then stroked over their exposed tops with his tongue.

“Delicious,” he murmured. “You taste of champagne.”

“Yes,” she gasped, straightening in his lap and pulling her bosom out of his tongue’s reach. His disappointment was short-lived, however, for she grasped her bodice in both hands and eased it downward, aiding the process with erotic, wriggling motions of her shoulders. “Yes, taste them. Touch them.”

Her br**sts finally sprang free, in all their bounteous, dark-tipped glory, and Toby thought he would spill in his trousers for the first time since the age of fifteen. He gratefully caressed, lifted, suckled, and she rode him faster, grinding her hips against his in a frantic rhythm. She gave a little cry, and he knew by the timbre of it that her peak was near. It was tempting to slide a hand between them and stroke her over the edge. Better yet, wrench open his fall and slide into her just at the moment she came. But instead he held back. This time, he didn’t want to bring her to pleasure. He wanted to observe her as she pleasured herself. There was nothing more arousing than the feel of her riding him, the acceleration of her breath against his ear. He allowed her to set her own pace, learn the rhythm and pressure and precise angle that would send her into bliss.

She did it all on her own, his passionate lover, his beautiful wife. But as her climax rocked her, it was his name she called.

And that was when Toby knew himself to be the luckiest man on earth. Isabel was still quivering in his lap and breathing hard against his neck, when the carriage rolled to a halt. He helped her adjust her bodice and skirts as best she could, offering his coat for her modesty as they alighted from the coach. She ducked her head as they entered the house, avoiding the curious gaze of the servants. Toby sent them away with a pointed glance.

“Look at me,” she whispered as they entered the foyer, indicating the wine-stained, bedraggled condition of her gown. “What a state I’m in. Perhaps I should clean up, before …”

“Before?” he prompted, a grin spreading across his face.

“You know what I mean.” She blushed.

Toby thought about telling her that he rather liked her mussed and soiled, and what ever repairs she made to her appearance were likely to be undone in seconds … but he supposed he could rein in his desire for a few more minutes, to indulge her feminine sensibilities. A very few. He pulled her close, thrusting the hard ridge of his arousal into her hip. “How long?” he asked gruffly. “How long before you’ll be ready for me?”

She pulled away and gave him a coy, seductive smile. Good Lord, but he’d done himself no favors, teaching this woman to tease.

“Ten minutes,” she said, fluttering her jet-black lashes. “Perhaps fifteen.”

“Minx.” Toby lifted her into his arms and swept her into the nearest room with a door, which happened to be the blue parlor. “You know I can’t wait that long.”

He kicked the door shut and pressed her against it, using one hand to lift her leg over his hip and working his way under her skirts with the other. The moment his fingertips found the slick warmth of her sex, there was no more coy conversation. There was only need—mindless and intense. He needed to get inside her, and he needed to come. Ideally in that order. With shaking fingers, he unbuttoned his fall and freed his straining erection. She helped him, hooking her legs around his waist and tilting her hips to ease his way. He positioned himself and thrust, sinking straight into her moist heat with no resistance. His body came alive with bliss. Lifting her backside with both hands, he pistoned his hips, pounding her against the door again and again. He thrust fast and hard, shamelessly using her snug, willing body. Pursuing his own release just as selfishly as she’d chased hers in the coach. And she loved it. She writhed and moaned in his arms, urging him on. Taking him deeper. Pulling him closer … closer …

There.

A hoarse cry ripped from his throat as he came. He sagged against her, spent and weakened. But far from sated.

He rested his brow against her bare collarbone. Her skin was slick with perspiration—his, hers. Theirs.