The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(29)

He could feel her trembling and realized his own hands were none too steady as well. And when his tongue touched hers, it sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him. Sweet, she was so sweet. Her mouth warm and lush, her tongue wicked and slick. His erection throbbed, harder than it’d been in ages. Yet he couldn’t stop kissing her. He came back again and again, a never-ending thirst that her kisses both eased and worsened at the same time.

Reason and good sense dictated this as a terrible idea. He shouldn’t have started this madness. It was the afternoon, for God’s sake. They could be caught at any moment—there were servants milling about, possibly listening at doors. Had he lost his everlasting mind?

But heaven help him, it wasn’t enough. Lust clawed at his insides, a swirling, living animal that craved satisfaction. He pressed her into the back of the couch, trying to get closer. Damned clothes. He’d give his considerable fortune to feel her naked skin next to his. To roll her underneath him and slide into the wetness between her thighs.

His palm covered her breast, cupping it, shaping it, stroking the taut nipple through her clothing. Her back arched, lifted to him, as she made a needy sound in her throat. Urgently, he dragged the bodice of her dress down, reached past the layers of cloth until her small breast spilled out. He broke off from her mouth and bent his head to see her. Gorgeous. A hard, pink-tipped nipple surrounded by a dark areola, a lovely contrast to her creamy white skin. Simon wasted no time in running his tongue over the taut bud, laving and licking, before drawing it deep in his mouth. He heard her sharp inhale and felt her fingers thread through his hair to hold him in place.

As if retreat was a possibility.

He knew she’d had many lovers and, right then, he did not care. It made not a whit of difference because none of those men had waited as long for her as Simon had. Dreamt about it as often as he had. Not one of them craved her down to their very souls. In fact, he’d never lusted after a woman with this much delirium. And now that he had her, with her body soft and pliant under his hands, he planned to pleasure her until she shouted his name. Only his.

So he used his teeth, scraping lightly, biting gently, until she whimpered. He loosened what fastenings he could, clawing at the laces of her dress, and then tugged the fabric down farther to give the other breast the same attention. She moaned, and he didn’t stop until she began writhing restlessly next to him. Her nipples were taut and eager, straining against his tongue, and unbelievably sweet.

Rising up, he reclaimed her mouth, drinking her in . . . surrounding himself with her. Her small hands slid up under his coat to clutch at his sides as she kissed him back. God, he needed to touch her—and wanted her to touch him in return.

He drew up her skirts, his fingers trailing up her thigh. She shivered—whether from the sensation or the cool air, he couldn’t say, but he didn’t stop. He would unlock all her secrets, find out what made her shudder and shake if it killed them both.

Liquid heat met his touch at the entrance to her body. Everlasting hell. She was wetter than he’d dared hope, and the undeniable proof of her desire made his gut clench. He held off, however strong his need to thrust deep into that slick heaven. No, he didn’t want to lose himself just yet.

“Simon,” she breathed, breaking off from his mouth as he slowly slipped a finger in her tight channel.

He bent to nibble her throat, kissing down to the hollow between her collarbones. “Yes?”

“Oh,” she gasped when he added a second finger. She was snug. A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his brow imagining that hot silk squeezing his cock. Somehow he forced himself to stay on task.

He happened to notice her hands gripping the cushion, as if she were afraid to let go. That wouldn’t do at all. He much preferred active participation from his lovers rather than a woman who’d lie back and take it. Hell, if he wanted passivity in a bed partner, he’d marry.

Maggie had passion inside her. He’d seen countless examples, in fact, from glimpses during her youth to more recent skirmishes. And he meant to have it. Now.

“Lift your breasts for me,” he told her, continuing to work her with his hand, gliding in and out. “Hold them up.”

She hesitated only a moment, then shifted to cup the undersides of her mounds, plumping them. The sight nearly made him spend in his breeches like a lad. He rewarded her by laving a nipple with the flat of his tongue before drawing it between his lips. He flicked it, stroked it, worshipped the tip of her breast with every bit of his concentration; then he moved to the second and began all over again.

She was panting, head thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure. He’d never seen anything more lovely in his life. When he felt her inner walls tighten, he stilled his hand.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, writhing. “Simon, you must . . . oh. Do not stop, please.”

He could finish it now, could use his thumb on the bud at the top of her cleft to send her over the edge. But he had to have more. He needed her complete surrender, to own her, body and soul.

“Come here,” he said, settling against the back of the sofa. Wrapping his hands around her small waist, he lifted her up and swung her over his lap, her knees astride his hips.

Ebony hair disheveled, emerald eyes gone dark, her lips swollen and rosy from his mouth . . . He’d put that look on her face, he thought smugly. “Touch me, Maggie. Put your hands on me. Any place. Anywhere at all. Just touch me.”