The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(43)
Chapter Eleven
The adjoining door closed softly and Maggie took her first true breath in a quarter hour. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating so hard and loud that she’d been sure he would notice. But self-preservation had urged her to keep silent.
His ministrations had been so tender, almost . . . loving. He’d made a concerted effort not to wake her and she’d played along. Besides, if she did stir, what would she possibly say? Touch me, Simon. Kiss me. Prove what happened yesterday afternoon had not been chance.
It had not been easy. His featherlight touch roused her body, each brush of his hand or press of his finger making her ache. She’d practically purred under his care, like a kitten starved for attention. When he’d unfastened her laces, she’d thought she would melt into a pool of lust before his eyes.
Her breasts heavy with wanting and her core wet with desire, she could hardly breathe with the strength of it. The one spot where pleasure concentrated, the nubbin Simon had stroked to bring her to peak only yesterday, throbbed in time with her heart. He had awakened her in every way, and sleep would not come soon.
She rolled to her back in hopes of alleviating the craving, opened her eyes, and tried to focus on her surroundings. The pretty yellow wallpaper. The bouncing firelight in the grate. She recognized the painting over the mantel as Wilkie’s Village Politicians. Appropriate for Barrett House, she thought, considering the political legacy of the Earls of Winchester.
Even the masterful Dutch-inspired work could not distract her, however. Her body clamored for relief.
The adjoining door, was that his bedchamber? He’d gone through not long before, so she had to assume he was on the other side of that partition. What was he doing? Relaxing? Undressing? Or, God help her, bathing?
Imagining his tall, lean frame wet and bare, water sluicing over his limbs, did little to ease her suffering. She cupped a hand between her legs over her clothing, hoping to extinguish the flames of desire licking there—only to gasp at the contact. Decidedly worse, she noted in dismay and snatched her hand away.
Why had she consumed the whisky at Madame Hartley’s? If she had not, under no circumstances would she have fallen asleep at Cora’s bedside. Late nights were commonplace for her. She often painted until the wee hours of the morning, not to mention that raucous parties thrown by the Half-Irish Harlot usually continued until daybreak. And if she hadn’t nodded off she’d be at home at the moment, not writhing under the grip of deliciously wicked temptation.
Before she knew it, her feet found the hard floor. Her gown hung awkwardly, nearly off her shoulders since Simon had loosened it. Perhaps she could ask him to finish unlacing it. No, no—this was madness. Reckless insanity. She couldn’t possibly . . . could she? What would she say?
Very little, with any luck.
What she should do, what any sane woman would do, she thought as she moved closer to his door, was demand he redo her laces and then send for her carriage. But as her fingers wrapped around the door handle, she knew full well she wouldn’t.
The partition opened soundlessly and she peeked into what turned out to be a bedchamber. The soft glow of flames bounced off the corners of the massive room, revealing large, masculine furnishings. It was precisely the kind of room she expected— A soft grunt caught her attention, and her eyes swung to the immense four-poster bed.
Her mouth fell open. Simon, bare as the day he was born, had stretched out on top of the coverlet and he was . . . touching himself. His shaft, specifically. He gripped it, stroking up and down, the muscles in his arms shifting as he worked. Eyes closed, face slackened in pleasure, his hand continued a regular rhythm, pumping from root to tip.
Lord above, he was beautiful.
She watched, fascinated, helpless to look away. There was no extra flesh on him. Flat stomach, broad shoulders, heavy, muscled thighs that bunched and twitched under the strain. Light golden hair dusted his upper chest, forearms and legs. He was breathtaking. She longed for her pencils and sketch papers in order to capture the essence of the purely selfish, purely spellbinding action.
The desire she’d felt in the other room paled in comparison to the inferno now raging inside her. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts as he stroked, the pressure clearly building. Top to bottom, then back again. Stronger now, moving faster. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Dug her toes into the carpet to keep from rushing forward. She’d never wanted to touch anyone so badly in all her years. Her limbs nearly vibrated with the force of remaining still.
His free hand came off the bed to rest on his belly, then began to slide lower. It didn’t stop where she assumed. Instead his long leg shifted, opened, and he reached down to cup the sac below. A groan rumbled out of his throat. Maggie’s knees turned to jelly, and she had to clutch the door frame to steady herself.
A small sound must’ve carried across the room because his lids snapped open, and Simon’s blue eyes, glittering and dark, pinned her to the spot. His hands stilled. Maggie held on to the wood, unsure of what she should say. How could she explain her unladylike, brazen behavior?
The fire crackled and hissed while she tried to wade through the murkiness of her mind to arrive at a coherent thought. One haughty blond eyebrow rose. No anger or shame in his expression, merely curiosity. His gaze, however, held wicked promise, almost as if he dared her to come forward.
“Do not stop,” she breathed, her voice a strangled plea. Oh, God. Had she truly said that aloud?