Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(45)

Jonathan’s heart threatened to pound from his chest, and he sank down onto the floor, with Juliet in his lap, borrowing support from the leather sofa. His body throbbed with an aching, unfulfilled desire; a need to lift the skirts of her nightgown and guide her upon his shaft, and bring her to surcease yet again.

She shifted off his lap, and he groaned. “Jonathan?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes tight, not trusting himself to speak with his need for her. “I need a moment, love.” He needed far more than a moment, but that was hardly fit for an innocent young lady’s ears.

His Juliet, however was far too clever. She came up on her knees beside him. Eyes wide. “Oh,” she blurted. “You…er…”

“Yes,” he interrupted, because the last thing his body could stand was her lips uttering her virginal question as to his current state.

She angled her head. Her breathing had resumed its normal cadence. “Can I help you? I imagine there is something I can do, as you’ve done for me.” She worried her lower lip. “Of course, I don’t know what that something is, per se, but…”

His groan drowned out her next words. He was going to hell, there was nothing else for it, but he needed to feel her fingers upon his manhood. Jonathan released the front flaps of his breeches. His shaft sprung free, both angry, and begging.

Juliet’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, my,” she whispered, and it was that breathless, hungry, desirous whisper that nearly drove him mad.

“Touch me,” he implored. He guided her hand to his rod. His eyes slid closed on a hiss as she wrapped her long, slender fingers about his length.

She stroked him up in down, and his hips lunged upwards. Juliet paused. “Have I hurt you?”

He clenched his eyes tight. “Only when you stop,” he managed between gritted teeth.

Juliet resumed stroking him. Up and down. Up and down. Then she touched the tip of her index finger over the plum tip of his rampant manhood, collecting the bead of moisture. She raised it to her mouth and flicked her tongue over the drop.

His hips lunged up, and he reached for her hand. He dragged it back to his swollen shaft. “Please,” he implored.

Juliet closed her fist about him and squeezed with clever hands, and then began to work him in a slow, rhythmic motion.

He groaned, and through heavy lids studied the erotic tableau of her pleasuring him. Her mouth hung agape as if bringing him pleasure had roused her just sated desires, and it only fueled the increasingly frantic movement of his hips. Jonathan pumped them in time to her firm tugs.

He should stop. He should stop. She was a lady, and…

His head fell back on a groan, and he spent himself while she wrung every last drop from him. He collapsed against the sofa, the life drained from him. His arms hung uselessly at his side. When blood resumed circulating through his arms, he pulled her into his lap.

When he could breathe again, he reached into the front of his jacket and withdrew a crisp white kerchief, and cleaned his seed from her. He righted his clothing and then reclined back against the leather sofa.

She burrowed close to him like a small kitten in need of warmth. He ran a hand over her back in little circles. The sweet smell of her upon his leg permeated his senses, more intoxicating than the most powerful spirits; a delicious scent of sin.

In his life, he’d carried on with a vast number of women, some inventive creatures who’d brought him a fleeting moment of pleasure. Never before had he known this mind-numbing bliss, as he’d known at Juliet’s innocent hands. All he knew was that this could never be enough. He could not live the remainder of his life without knowing the feel of plunging into her hot, tight heat.

He ceased his rhythmic stroking, under the staggering realization that this pull she had over him went beyond mere sex. This enigmatic hold was of a sorceress who’d woven a spell about him of which he could not be freed. Jonathan’s heart pounded loud and hard as his mind shied away from the implications of such a thought. He trailed his hand over her lower back, her buttocks.

She gasped as he scooped her into his arms and cradled her upon his lap. Jonathan dropped a kiss against her brow. He ran his hand over her body, until he reached the lean, lithe legs of a woman accustomed to the seat of a horse.

He paused, remembering Prudence’s claim earlier that day. He lifted the fabric of her wrapper and nightgown, studied the slim calf, and then paused. But for the slight curve at the lower portion of her right leg, there was little else remarkably different about the limb. He trailed his fingers over the former break, and Juliet stiffened in his arms. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered and kissed the corner of her lips.

“It’s ugly,” she said bluntly. She spoke of her injury as a matter of fact. She didn’t shed tears or avert her gaze. He’d never before known a woman like her.

“You’re so very wrong, Juliet. Whatever gentleman would desire a flawless limb when presented with such unique—”

She snorted. “You’re a hopeless rogue, Jonathan.”

He started, a frown on his lips as it occurred to him that she believed he spoke as nothing more than a flirtatious rogue, and not as a gentleman who in this moment desired her and no other. “You are beautiful, and your leg is beautiful,” he said harshly. “When I speak, it is the truth.” He’d never resented the title rogue ascribed him—until now. With this woman.