The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(30)

Maggie knew precisely what he meant. She hadn’t much experience with men, but there was one place they all wanted to be touched and, by God, she couldn’t wait to touch him there, either.

What had happened to her? In the last quarter hour, she’d gone from resenting his presence to falling under his spell like Persephone après the pomegranate seeds. Hardly her fault—talents such as Simon’s, she supposed, were not to be underestimated. No other man had ever incited a wicked burn in her belly. Or made her skin itch with need. She hadn’t expected it, and yet it seemed she’d waited a lifetime for it. She was consumed, overwrought. Indeed, she had every intention of following through on what was likely to happen on this tiny sofa.

She snaked her hand between their bodies, covered the hard shaft evident in the tight buckskin. He sucked in a breath, and she traced the thick, straining length of him with her fingertips.

“Maggie, please,” he pleaded through gritted teeth. “I am past the point of teasing.”

Hmm. Though her body throbbed, her heart beating so hard that blood roared in her ears, she thought he deserved to be tormented a little. She scooted back to sit on his thighs. Slowly working the buttons on his breeches, she peeled back the fall to reveal his shaft. Long and rigid with springy, dark blond curls at the base, his erection was more impressive than the two she’d seen before. With a fingertip, she traced the smooth, silky head.

If only she could see all of him in the gray afternoon light. She’d seen enough sketches of the bare human form—both male and female—and had even drawn a few unclothed models in Paris. The hard angles on a man were so different from the soft, roundness of a woman. Protruding hip bones, sharp ribs, the ripple of sinewy muscle under skin . . . they combined into something capable of great power and strength. It would be nice to see how Simon compared—from an artist’s perspective, of course.

Still, one must make do with what one had. She swiped her thumb over the tip, fascinated, and heard his groan.

“I want to take you to your bed,” he growled. “Lay you down and strip you bare. Please, Maggie. Will you let me?”

No, she nearly shouted, the answer swift and absolute. Stolen moments in her drawing room were one matter. Taking him to her chamber, undressing, allowing a man in her bed—at this hour, no less—was entirely something else. And it wasn’t the servants she worried about; it was her sanity.

In this small room, she could pretend that passion had overcome her reason. Pretend that Simon hadn’t hurt her terribly all those years ago. Pretend that this burning fever for him was nothing other than a temporary biological condition to be dealt with.

Without answering, she bent forward and pressed her mouth to his. He kissed her back, took her mouth as if it were necessary to his very survival. Spread the seam of her lips with his clever, wicked tongue. Demanding. Impatient. And Maggie melted against him, pliant and desperate to get closer. Her fingers threaded the smooth strands of his hair, holding on under the glorious rush of sensation.

His mouth broke off, and he trailed kisses down her neck. “You stubborn, maddening female,” he said into her skin. “I want to have you properly, not in here like a footman—”

Maggie rocked her cleft over his shaft with a roll of her hips, forestalling his words. The resulting pleasure pulsed in her core. “Simon, please. Now.”

Simon groaned, his eyes searching her face. He gathered her skirts out of the way to expose her. “Take me inside, Maggie. Let me have you.”

She hesitated, questions coming unbidden to her mind. Did he want . . . ? The mechanics weren’t unknown, of course, but she’d never . . . well, she’d never been the one on top. Should she merely—

Without warning, he snatched her shoulders and twisted their bodies until she was on her back, Simon cradled between her splayed thighs. His eyes glittered, and she felt the blunt tip of him at her entrance as he lined up. In one smooth thrust, he drove deep, filling her completely.

She squeaked and clutched at his shoulders. Though not a maiden, she hadn’t done this often. It hadn’t hurt, exactly, but the sensation had taken her by surprise.

He dropped his forehead to hers. “I’m a cad. I took you too fast. But I could not . . . I’m sorry, Mags. Let me make it better.” Withdrawing slightly, he angled to slide back inside. “The servants . . . ?”

She gasped, the deliciousness of that one small movement too much to take. “No,” she breathed, knowing Tilda well enough that her maid would not allow anyone to disturb them for any reason. “Again, Simon.”

He complied, then murmured, “The way you feel around me . . . so tight.” Another rock of his hips, deeper this time. “God in heaven.”

She couldn’t agree more. It felt less of an invasion and more of a merging. Like his body was leading hers to a destination they could only arrive at together. She’d never have guessed, would never have imagined, this bliss. How had she gone her whole life without feeling it until now?

The pace increased, their ragged breathing filling the small drawing room as ghostly afternoon light filtered in through the glass. Simon filled her again and again, increasing the ache, until she whimpered and writhed beneath him. He teased her nipples, rolling and pinching them, drawing them deep into the lush heat of his mouth. When she thought she would die from the intensity of it, he reached between her legs and found the hard nubbin of flesh at the apex of her thighs, stroked. Once, twice, again, and she exploded in a burst of color and light, muscles clenching in a spectacular euphoria.