Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(45)

She gasped, feeling his hot skin as he stroked over her hardened nipple. He spread his hand, trapping the tip between his first and second fingers. When he squeezed, she felt the sudden jolt between her thighs.

“Shhh,” he murmured, quieting the moan she’d made. “Let me.”

She looked and saw that he’d pulled her bodice down, exposing one nipple above her stays. He muttered something, working at the laces of her bodice, and then both breasts were exposed.

For a moment he merely stared down at her, her soft skin framed by his big, tanned hands, his long fingers playing with her nipples possessively.

“Sweet, so sweet,” he murmured. “Let me taste them.”

He looked at her, and his gaze was feverish, his green eyes gleaming like a demon. That was why she agreed—it must be why—because she could only nod at him.

And then his mouth was where no man had ever touched her. His tongue stroked across one naked nipple, wet and faintly rough at the same time. She had no idea she was so sensitive there. He took her flesh into his mouth—tenderly, reverently—and she jumped. He pulled strongly, the sensation so exquisitely sweet it verged on painful.

She looked down dazedly, watching his white wig against her breast. This was too intimate an act to be done in a carriage fully clothed. She wanted a private part of him, too, if only a little bit. She pushed aside his wig, pulling it off his head and throwing it to the seat. He never stopped his ministrations, only moved to the other nipple.

Under the wig, his hair was dark and thick, shorn short, almost like fur. She ran her hands over his scalp, flexing her fingers, feeling his hair, warm and surprisingly soft. She closed her eyes in bliss. He was pinching her first nipple between his thumb and finger as he suckled on her other breast. A fire was building at her center, hot and uncontrollable.

“Touch me,” he whispered against her breast.

“I… I am,” she answered.

She opened her eyes and saw him rub his cheek against her cherry-red nipple. She swallowed at the erotic sight, at the sweetly rough sensation of his unshaven cheek on her sensitive flesh. His eyes were bright and green, watching her, demanding something.

“Not there,” he said, and caught her hand, drawing it down between them. Her skirts concealed his lap, and he pulled her fingers underneath, fumbling with his other hand, until suddenly—startlingly—she touched naked flesh.

Her gaze flew to his.

His smile was rueful, yet strained. He looked upon her bare breasts, but what she held, naked, in her hand was hundreds of times more intimate.

“Do you feel me?” he rasped.

She licked her lips, staring into his face. “Yes.”

“Stroke me.” His eyes half closed. “Please.”

She flexed her fingers, exploring this foreign, hot flesh. It was so hard it didn’t seem humanly possible. Yet the skin was tenderly soft. She wrapped her hand about him, and his palm closed over hers, strong and unbearably familiar. He showed her how to slowly stroke up until she touched the wide, slick head. She caressed it, feeling the spongy flesh, the tiny indent at the very tip. He made a sound, almost of pain, and then he seized her hand and brought it down the thick stalk again. It was so much longer—so much bigger—than she’d ever dreamed.

“Please,” he moaned. “Please.”

He turned his head and licked across her nipple before gently closing his teeth over the tip. She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. He worried her nipple, then let it go to kiss it softly.

“Stroke me,” he gasped, and let her hand go.

She did, pulling up over that hard flesh, hidden beneath her skirts. That part of him that made him a man.

“Like this?” she whispered, low and intimate in the rocking carriage. Outside, London passed by. Inside she held a man’s penis in her palm.

“Yesss,” he hissed before tonguing her other nipple. “Exactly like that.”

She looked down and saw herself, displayed before him, a wanton feast, her nipples red and swollen, so sensitive his every touch made her moan. Her hand moved beneath her skirts, and she wondered at her own daring. Perhaps this was a dream, a wicked fantasy come to life in the middle of the day in her own carriage. She stroked a man’s bare cock—Reading’s bare cock—to bring him carnal pleasure. She watched his face, shining with sweat, the intent look he bent upon her nipples, and the breaths that made his great chest expand and contract. It occurred to her that she might never share a moment as intimate as this again with another human being.

His big hands were on her breasts, and he pinched both her nipples at once. She bit her lip at the pleasure-pain, a tear slipping down one cheek. This was real. This was something outside of everyday bland interactions and rote conversation. His mouth was on hers, open and wild, and his hips were thrusting, moving his cock in her hand in an animal rhythm. He squeezed her poor engorged nipples again, pulling at them at the same time. And she felt.

She felt alive.

She arched, pushing her breasts into his hands, sucking on his tongue, and feeling an unstoppable rush of pure, white pleasure through her body. And at the same time, as if in sympathy, the male flesh in her palm jerked and gushed hot liquid between her fingers. She pulsed as he pulsed, shuddered as he shuddered, and she didn’t want it to end.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was appalled and amazed at the same time.