Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(78)

“Julian,” she said in a shocked tone, her cheeks flushing with color. “The vibrations, they’re … You were right. This is wicked indeed.”

“Shall I stop?” He held up his hands.

“Heavens, no.”

He teased her a bit longer, with light, discordant scales. Just as he would trace tantalizing caresses up and down her bared thighs. She closed her eyes, and her lips fell apart. A husky moan eased from her throat.

Enough with the études and foreplay.

He put both hands to the keyboard and coaxed from it a full-bodied, if ill-tuned piece of music, with dark, powerful chords and a lilting melody.

“Oh.” She squirmed atop the pianoforte. “Oh, Julian. Is that … Is that our waltz?”

God, how he loved her. He nodded in affirmation. “It is indeed our waltz. And this”—he paused—“is our country dance.” He gave her no time to adjust before launching into the brisk, vigorous, pounding rhythm.

She made a sound that was half shriek, half delight. “Have mercy, please,” she laughed. Her throat and chest were blushed crimson, and he could see the points of her taut ni**les pressing against the bodice of her dress. “I can’t take anymore. Julian, do stop, or I shall speak of plaster.”

He stopped.

Her breath heaved in her chest. Strands of her hair had fallen loose, floating about her face. “Goodness,” she said, putting a hand to her brow. “I’m perspiring. I must look as though I’ve been tumbled.” Her eyes accused him merrily. “You truly are wicked.”

“Brace yourself, my dear wife. That was just the prelude.”

He reached for her over the keyboard, buffing the polish with her skirts as he pulled her toward him and spun her legs around. Now she sat perched just before him, sitting directly above the keyboard. Her knees grazed his chest. He pushed up her skirts and spread her legs wide, so that her feet dangled over opposite ends of the piano keys.

Lust surged through him, and he took a moment to adjust his trouser fall. He’d gone hard as marble, just watching that erotic display. He probably could tap out a tune with his engorged staff, if he freed it from his clothing.

But first he needed to free her from hers.

She was spread out before him like a luscious feast, her trim, stocking-clad legs converging in a shadowy valley of bare skin and dark curls and intoxicating feminine musk. He removed her left slipper and let it fall to the floor, skimming his hand up the enticing curves of her leg—from the high arch of her instep, to the gentle curve of her calf, over the knob of her knee, and further.

“Julian,” she said frantically, as he yanked at her garter. “We can’t do this. Not here.”

“Why not here? It’s our house.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Oh. Did you prefer one of the other homes we toured?” He pulled the garter loose, then deftly rolled the stocking down her leg.

“No, you impossible man. You know I want this house, but—”

He shucked her other slipper. It hit the floor with a softly echoing thud. Then he ceased his attentions, momentarily devoting his whole body to communication. “You want this house, and you shall have it. I want you, and I shall have you. Right here. Right now. There will be no further discussion.”

Then he went back to removing her other garter and sliding her leg free of its delicate silk sheath. Once he’d pulled the garment free and exposed her dainty, wriggling toes, he kissed his way up her leg, tracing every smooth ivory contour with lips and tongue. As he reached the quivering slope of her inner thigh, her foot slipped to the keyboard in disharmonious protest.

“Be still,” he told her, shushing against her skin. He picked up her foot and braced it on his shoulder. Pushing aside the white, gauzy folds of her chemise and petticoat, he bared her most intimate places to his view. The petals of her sex were flushed deep red and dewy with excitement, and the sight alone drove him to a new peak of arousal.

Rather then dipping to taste her directly, he schooled himself to be patient. Instead, he licked a winding path up her inner thigh, giving her time to grow accustomed to the idea. Even so, her hips bucked with surprise when he made that first teasing pass with his tongue.

He kept a firm grip on her ankle, holding her bare foot braced against his shoulder. With his other hand, he clutched her hip. She wasn’t getting away from him. Oh, no.

He pressed his open mouth to her sex, just lightly. No kisses or fancy work with his tongue. He merely settled there, hovering near. Feeling her maidenhair tickle at his freshly shaven cheek, letting his ragged breath warm her aroused flesh. With devilish intent, he lifted his gaze and made eye contact with her over the heaving horizon of her bosom. Her brown eyes were glazed, her lips dusky and flushed.

He licked, once. In a reflexive move, her leg tensed against his shoulder, as if she would push him away.

He licked again, this time making a long, slow slide along her cleft, parting her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she slumped back with a moan.

Eye contact ended. Her leg relaxed. Now he could tend to business.

He slid his hands up to frame her hips. She was so slender, he could curl his fingers over her waist and still reach toward her center with his thumbs, spreading her open for his pleasure and hers.

Damn, but he loved this. The teasing, the tasting, the tonguing of her every delicate contour and crest. Having explored every secret part of her, he swept his tongue to the pinnacle of her cleft and found her swollen bud.