Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(70)

“Put your legs around me,” he huffed in her ear, humid and hot.

“They’ll hear us.”

“Lily,” he groaned, “please do it, love.”

The endearment jolted through her, going straight to where he still shoved into her.

She wrapped her legs around him, as high as she could, and as she did, he grasped her bottom in both his hands and lifted her. She clung to him, impaled on his penis, the position so obscene she should’ve fainted from just the thought.

Instead she nearly came.

He leaned his shoulders back against the wall and moved his big hands to her waist. She watched as his eyes shuttered, his face going slack with sensuous want as he lifted and lowered her on his cock, using her as a tool to pleasure himself.

Each pull upward was a draw against her most sensitive flesh. Each jolt down a powerful slam of pleasure.

He was driving her insane, driving her with need, and she wasn’t sure she could keep from screaming.

He must’ve known her peril, for his eyes opened, his pupils large and black, and he looked at her. “Kiss me.”

He couldn’t do it himself, she realized. He was using all his strength to keep them both upright against the wall.

She leaned forward, feeling like a doll in his strong arms, and placed her closed lips against his, a chaste, gentle kiss, even as his flesh plundered hers below. She was swollen and wet, so heated with want that she wasn’t sure it could ever end. Maybe she didn’t want it to end. Maybe she wanted him to fill her forever, to just keep ramming her with that long, thick, perfect cock until she became insensible. He could thrust into her all night long and when she woke he’d still be screwing her, his body hard and everlasting, hers wet and wanting.

But it couldn’t last forever, that was a fevered fantasy born of heat and his smell, and when he began losing his rhythm, she reached between them, pinching her clitoris with two fingers.

He watched her, his lips curled. “You… you’re…”

She leaned close and whispered against his sweaty neck. “I’m touching myself. Pleasuring myself as you f*ck me.”

He gritted his teeth and the tendon in his neck stood out in stark relief.

She felt his come flooding her, seeping out around his penis.

And when she climaxed herself, she bit down on that tendon, tasting salt. Tasting life.

GREAVES HOUSE WAS a dreary mansion.

Trevillion looked up at the darkened edifice as he helped Lady Phoebe and her elderly cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood, from their carriage. Only one lantern was lit at the door—either from miserliness or because their host wasn’t particularly welcoming.

“Oof,” Miss Picklewood muttered as she made the gravel drive. “Well, ’tisn’t a lovely place, but I expect the play shall be quite good.”

“It was very nice of Mr. Greaves to invite us,” Lady Phoebe chided. “He doesn’t even know us and I’m sure it was merely a courtesy to Hippolyta. Actually, it’s a lovely coincidence that he even found out we were staying in Bath.”

Miss Picklewood darted an arch glance at Trevillion as she took Lady Phoebe’s arm. “Yes, quite a coincidence.”

He didn’t bother replying as he followed the ladies. Miss Picklewood was a disconcertingly perceptive lady for her age and he’d had the feeling for quite some time now that she’d be formidable should the need arise.

The door was opened by a fawning butler who took the ladies’ wraps before showing them into a first-floor drawing room. This room at least was brightly lit—dozens of candles fluttered at their entrance, mounted on chandeliers, and candelabra were set here and there on tables. One end of the room had been cleared to serve as a stage, with a trio of musicians in the corner. Several rows of chairs faced the area. A dozen or so guests were already seated in the chairs, chattering as they waited for the play to begin.

A man some sixty years of age approached them. “Ah, Lady Phoebe, I presume?”

His voice was very loud and he was looking at Miss Picklewood.

Lady Phoebe’s smile was a bit strained. “Yes, I am she. Mr. William Greaves?”

“Indeed, my lady,” he replied, still loud.

“May I present my dear cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood? And this is Captain Trevillion.”

Trevillion noted with amusement that Lady Phoebe didn’t bother explaining his presence. Their host bowed to Miss Picklewood and turned to him, his eyes widening when he saw the pistols Trevillion wore upon his chest. “Oh… er… most welcome.”

“Thank you, sir,” Trevillion replied.

“There’ll be a ball after the play—a sort of midnight festivity. I hope you’ll be able to attend, Lady Phoebe?”

“Lady Phoebe will be returning to her home after the play,” Trevillion replied for her, earning himself a glare from his charge. It couldn’t be helped, however. A seated performance was one thing. A dance at a stranger’s house was another. Wakefield wouldn’t like it—and Wakefield paid his wages.

“Yes, well, let me show you to your seats,” Greaves said, indicating two empty chairs at the front row. “Miss Royle said that she was friends with you, my lady.”

“Yes, indeed.” Lady Phoebe smiled.

A dark-haired lady next to the empty chairs turned and waved at their approach.