The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(70)

Number thirteen was tangled with a bit of soft yarn that she’d used to tie her braid in place. He removed this and pulled away from her, holding it up in front of her nose. “You said nineteen pins. You said nothing of this, my dear.”

“You’re right,” she told him with an eyebrow arched to naughtiness. “I didn’t mention any yarn at all. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“You’ll have to owe me for it.”

“How?”

“Let’s just put it on your account.” He smiled at her and went back to removing the pins. To remove the remaining ones, he had to undo her braid, run his hands through her hair. He turned her head toward him as he did and took her mouth. Their tongues met, and he lost himself in the simple act of kissing her. There should have been an urgency to it, a rush to complete the act he’d wanted for so long. But despite the throbbing pound of lust in his body, the rising tide of his desire, he felt…calm. He was soothed by her.

He found the last pin and slid his hand down her face, down the column of her neck, resting his fingers in the hollow of her throat. He could feel the beat of her pulse, hungry and insistent.

“You haven’t even taken off your other glove,” she told him, “let alone any of the good bits.”

“Ah, but there was that thread,” he told her. “That undisclosed yarn. I’m not taking anything else off, not until you’re completely bare.”

Her pulse jumped under his fingers. “Oh?” she said.

“Oh.”

“That is a punishment,” she said. “I had been hoping to see rather more of you.”

He almost growled. “You will. Your wish is delayed, not denied.”

She smiled at him. “Then I suppose I should take off everything.”

He hadn’t been sure what to expect—really, he didn’t care what path they traveled on, so long as they were intent on the same destination. But this… oh, this. She smiled at him, and he thought his heart might stop. Then she undid the buttons of her cuffs, and then her coat. She removed it, revealing a gown of dark gray. God, he was going to go mad with want. She unfastened the sash, reached behind, and loosened her laces. And then she pulled off the fabric in one swift motion, revealing corset and petticoats, and another two inches of her bosom. Her corset was cut so close to her ni**les that if he’d slid his tongue along her neckline, he would have felt the pebbling, responsive edge of them.

Still she didn’t hesitate. She unhooked her corset, loosening it enough to lift it off her frame. And then he could see her ni**les through the thin fabric of her shift, pink and perfect and lovely. His breath was growing hoarse, but she didn’t stop. She unbuttoned her petticoats, let them fall heavily to the floor. The last daylight shone through her chemise, illuminating her legs. Bloomers came off next—then she pulled off her chemise.

“There,” she said. “Is that bare enough for you?”

It was. Her skin was smooth and naked, all curves of breast and hip. Darker red curls between her legs beckoned him to come closer. His whole body seemed wound tight. There was just that hint of bravado in her voice, that upward tilt of her chin. Those were the only signs that she felt any nerves at all. She faced him, though, as if she were sure of herself, sure of him. He never, ever wanted her to doubt.

And God, how she would.

“No,” he said. “It’s not bare enough for me. Not yet. Let me show you how it’s done.” And so saying, he guided her to the bed, pushed her to sit on the edge. “Spread your knees, lovely one.” She blinked at him, and after a moment, she did.

He knelt between her legs. “This is bare enough for me.” And so saying, he set his mouth to her sex. She was sweet and wet, and she let out a shaky breath as his lips spread her open, as his tongue darted out and claimed her.

“Edward.” It was not quite a question, not quite a response.

“Tell me if you like it,” he said, and slid his tongue up to find the nub of her nerves.

She let out a gasp. “Oh my God, I…do. Yes. Right there.”

He spread her knees wider and leaned in, finding the rhythm of her body. The catch of her breath; the rise of her chest. The pulse of her clitoris against his lips, the taste of her desire. It matched the flow of blood to his own body, the want that was swelling his cock. She was utterly bare to him, every impulse, every desire impossible for her to hide. Her hips flexed up to meet him; her hands tangled in the length of his hair, urging him on. He could feel the flush of her pleasure as it rose on her skin, that delicious warmth spreading throughout her. He could taste the slickness of her sex, growing wetter with every stroke of his tongue. He could sense her orgasm, coming swiftly upon her, flowing over her until her hands clenched and she cried aloud. Her thighs pressed hard against him. He growled and took it all, every last bit.

And then—when her breath died down, when the last of her cries faded from the air—he took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He undid his shirt, the buttons of his trousers. He felt impossibly eager. And yet he seemed to be moving slowly through treacle, as if there was a solemn deliberation to his actions. Her eyes opened and she watched him stepping out of his trousers, sliding down his smallclothes. He folded these, setting them atop everything else.

He was hard, so hard. He knelt on the ground before her, set his hands on her knees.