Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(38)
His hands slid lower, to the swells of her breasts, continuing their careful, steady seduction. Swirls on her skin. Circles of desire that threatened to set her aflame. The tips of his fingers brushed the ribbon trimming her décolletage. Though she knew it was wanton and she ought not to, she arched her back ever so slightly, as if in offering. Her nipples longed for his touch. She felt as coiled as a spring, her entire being a pile of dry kindling about to be set aflame.
“Perhaps we are a perfect match, buttercup.” His words were low, tinged with desire, rendering them almost a feral growl. “I’m not a gentleman, and you’re not a lady.”
Either they brought out the worst in each other or the best. Daisy still hadn’t decided. All she knew was that he was setting her on fire in a slow burn, and she couldn’t bear much more teasing. Her body longed—no, hungered—for something, anything deeper and more meaningful than what they’d already shared. She didn’t know what it was, what he could give her that he hadn’t already, but her instinct told her it would far surpass anything she’d experienced thus far.
She wanted him to claim her. To do wicked things to her. To make her his.
He slipped beneath her bodice then, between her chemise and her skin, beneath her corset. Those knowing fingers found her nipples with unerring persistence, rolling them, pinching, plucking. Drawing a moan from her. His lips pressed to her throat, just below her ear.
“Why did you call off the servants?” the question left her, a re-asking of the query she’d already posed. It was a desperate attempt at self-preservation. Because every part of her longed for him to continue doing what he was doing to her and then more. So much more. Anything he wished. Good heavens, this man was pure, blissful torture.
“Cannot a man long to be alone with his wife?” He dragged his teeth slowly down the corded column of her throat. When he reached her shoulder, he gave her a playful bite as he pinched her nipples again.
The ache between her thighs heightened. Her body felt boneless, breath held in anticipation, the core of her wet and wanting in a way she’d never before known. It was shameful, how much he could make her desire him.
“You said we should court,” she reminded him as his mouth opened over her flesh, sucking and biting before soothing the sting with his tongue.
“This is courting.” He removed his left hand from her bodice and lowered it to her lap, settling over hers where she clasped her skirts. Their fingers tangled while his right hand continued to play with her nipple. “If I had my way, I’d have you bent over this table right now, buttercup, with your skirt up around your waist and my cock so deep inside you that—”
A discreet knock sounded at the door to the dining room just then. How had the time passed with such swiftness? The butler’s calm, utterly proper voice cut through the moment. “Your Grace? Forgive the interruption, but the next course will arrive in two minutes.”
“Damn it.” Sebastian exhaled against her throat.
Yes, damn it, she echoed inwardly. Some wicked part of her she hadn’t known existed still longed to hear the rest of what he’d been about to say. Such wicked, wanton things. So low and base, she ought to take umbrage as any properly bred lady would. But what he had said would taunt her all night long. His cock inside her. The mere notion was enough to make her come out of her skin.
His hand retreated from her bodice. “I should have asked for a whole bloody hour.”
His tone was grim. As grim as she felt. The loss of his touch was an ache pounding through her wherever his skin had last met hers. Acting on instinct alone, she released her skirts at last, reaching behind her to still him when he would have disengaged. She caught his cheek to her palm, the bristles of his whiskers a welcome abrasion upon her palm. She had chosen not to wear gloves on occasion of the intimacy of the setting and she was heartily glad for it now.
Daisy turned finally, so that their mouths nearly brushed.
Her eyes met his, challenging the sparks she saw. The heat. The want. “Yes,” she agreed, “you should have.”
And then she pressed her lips to his.
he had kissed him.
And it had been inexperienced. Not at all artful. No hint of seduction. No teasing. Daisy’s mouth had simply turned to his, seeking. But if anything, her approach had only made the beast raging inside him hunger for more. And so, he’d met her halfway, claiming, obliging her.
He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth, moaning his appreciation for her boldness, his hand fisting her skirts of its own volition and raising them higher. Up, past her knees, almost to her thighs. He found his way back into the inviting warmth of her bodice where the fullness of her breast made him long for more.
He’d caught her lower lip between his teeth and bit. He’d almost been to the sweet slit in her drawers, his tongue taking her mouth the way he longed to claim her cunny, his fingers skimming past stockings and satin ribbons, over soft thighs she parted just for him. And then another knock had come at the door. Giles again. Ever discreet. Ever circumspect.
It was a final warning. To postpone the servants yet again would set tongues belowstairs wagging more than they already had. He and Daisy were newly wed and allowed some latitude. But calling for a twenty-minute break followed by another, followed by only-the-Lord-knew-what was testing the bounds of propriety more than he ought to do, and even Sebastian knew that. There was also the concern, nipping at him, that Carlisle’s eyes and ears could be among his domestics.