The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(78)

“God, Violet.” He took a deep breath. “Holy hells, Violet.” Another breath. He pulled her up from her knees to sit next to him, his arm wrapping around her. His kiss was deep and intense; she felt it through her entire body.

And in that moment, she realized how much he’d been holding back—how much raw want he’d stored up. Because even now, even after he’d spent himself so thoroughly, she could feel it. She could feel it in the hand that crept down her bodice, cupping her breast. When his thumb made a slow, expert circle of that peak, her own insistent desire flared up to a burning point.

“Trust me,” he murmured in her ear. “Trust me not to hurt you.”

Easy to nod yes. Easy, when all she felt was pure want.

He slid to the floor, on his knees in front of her. His hand pressed against her stomach, a hard, powerful pressure. She looked at him, suddenly unsure of herself. Her heart slammed. But that want hadn’t slipped away. It filled her, too. She simply looked up at him, unable to speak, unable to do anything but balance on that edge between fear and desire.

But he wasn’t holding her in place. He wasn’t hurting her. He slowly lifted her skirts, letting the cool air touch her limbs. She was quivering in place, desperate for that first touch, and yet still nervous for it.

He sat back on his heels, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he spread her legs. She felt open and exposed, vulnerable. She could hear the echo of her husband’s voice.

You’re selfish.

She wasn’t selfish. She deserved this.

“Clever Violet,” Sebastian said. “Lovely Violet. Sweet Violet. The best Violet in the entire world.” He slid his hands up her thighs and she gasped. “Beloved Violet,” he said softly. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” she said. “And me.”

“Do you have any particular fantasies you want to confess?”

She’d tried for years not to have any at all. The moment one intruded, she’d quashed it ruthlessly, refusing to give way to it. She breathed out.

He knelt between her legs. “Or shall we give you one to remember?”

“Just the one,” she whispered. “The one I never could eradicate.”

As she talked, he spread her legs farther and leaned forward. She could feel his breath on her thighs, moist heated air that made her clench her hands in urgency.

“Keep talking,” he murmured. “Tell me more.”

“But you’re…you’re…”

“Ah, ah. Keep talking.”

“It seems so foolish, so juvenile, in comparison to yours.”

He set his mouth against her sex, and she stopped. “Sebastian. Oh, God. I’m not sure…”

“Tell me if you want me to stop. And don’t worry. There’s no such thing as juvenile. Tell me.” His tongue did something she couldn’t quite comprehend—something fabulous, something that radiated from her clitoris outward in waves.

She let out a gasp. “Sebastian.”

“Go on,” he said, “and I’ll keep going.”

“It’s not about…sex. Every time I started to think of intercourse, I’d make myself stop.” He kept going. God, he kept going. She didn’t know what he was doing, how he was doing it. His thumb pressed against her; his lips spread her wide, and his tongue—oh, God, it felt like his tongue was everywhere, coaxing her desire from her.

“It wasn’t even about kissing,” she confessed. “Or about being touched.”

He was using two hands now, spreading her wide, his mouth hungry against her sex.

“And it was actually something that happened. So. A memory, more than a fantasy.”

He was going to think her so weak and insipid. But, oh, God. He slid a finger inside her. It had been so, so long since she’d let herself think about this. She could feel herself freezing, could feel every fear, every worry flooding back to her.

His mouth was still on her, hot and warm, but he murmured. “Don’t stop. Tell me.”

“It was a few years after my husband passed away. Before that…I don’t think I could have mustered up desire, not if an entire herd of rakes had descended upon me, intent on seduction. You and I had been talking. And…I forget what we were talking about.”

He was relentless. His tongue was on her again, seeking out that nub of pleasure. Every stroke was sending shivers radiating out and yet concentrating on that one point.

“But I said I was a freak. And you said—”

“‘No, Violet,’” he quoted, “‘You’re brilliant. And I wish everyone could know.’”

And then he was doing something more—his mouth came down hard on her. Pleasure swept up her, hard to push aside.

“There,” she said. “That’s it. That’s the thing that makes me shiver with desire, the one I could never push away. It’s the thought that maybe, maybe I will tell one person and they won’t shrink away from me.”

He didn’t let up.

“It took me years to figure out that it was true.” Her breath was coming in gasps; each phrase slid out between jolts of pleasure. “That I’d told that one person. And that all those years, he’d been telling me over and over and over—”

Every cell in her body seemed to explode and shiver. It swept through her, hard and powerful. He didn’t relent; his fingers inside her stretched her, expanding the moment; his mouth wrested waves of pleasure from her. She screwed her eyes shut and let the orgasm wash through her, scouring everything from her. When it passed, she lay on her back, shivering. Waiting for him to take advantage of the moment. Waiting for him to come on top of her and have his way with her while she was too weak-willed to say no.