The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(44)

The side of his mouth hitched. Releasing the twin weights below his straining erection, he crooked a finger at her. She shook her head wildly. If she got close, there was no telling what she may do.

“Come here, Maggie.”

As if he’d pulled a string tethering her to him, her feet started forward at his husky command. The closer she crept, the more detail she noticed. The ridges, angles, and hollows along his delectable frame. The fine sheen of perspiration coating his skin. A small scar on his muscled abdomen. At the foot of his bed, she grabbed on to the nearest wooden poster, held it.

“I was unaware I had an audience,” he said. The hand began moving once more, drawing her eye below his navel. His palm swept over the bulbous head, then he fisted himself and pumped a few times. “You are so beautiful, all flushed in your arousal. Have you ever seen a man frig himself before?”

“No,” she whispered.

“It’s plain you’ve enjoyed the performance. Tell me what watching me makes you want to do.”

Dishonesty never occurred to her. “I want to lick you.”

His hand stilled and he gave a small intake of breath. “Where?” he rasped.

Her eyes met his. “Everywhere.”

He released his erection and it fell, stiff and proud, against his belly. Simon slid both arms above his head, his body stretched out in front of her in all its straining, aroused, masculine glory. Her mouth went dry. In no hurry, he waited. Clearly challenging her to see what she might do. Sweet heaven.

Could she do it?

Could she not do it?

It wasn’t as if she was an innocent; her maidenhead had been lost years ago. But pleasure, the kind Simon had shown her yesterday, was a recent discovery. She never would have believed it if she hadn’t experienced it for herself, in fact. And, as if it were a bite of Tilda’s lemon cake, she craved more.

Pulse racing, she began to climb onto the bed until he said, “Your dress. I want to take it off.” Bracing both feet on the floor, she turned to present him with her back. She heard him sit up, could feel the heat coming off his big body behind her, and she held her breath. His fingers flew over the laces. “There.”

She pulled her arms through the sleeves and let the gown fall to a puddle of silk on the ground. Before she could step out, he unfastened her petticoat and pushed the straps off her shoulders. Clasping her hips, he spun her around, reached for the ties of her stays. He removed the garment as quickly as the others and then reclined back on his bed, leaving her wearing only her thin shift.

Simon slid his arms back above his head, almost as if he were trying not to touch her. “Will you remove it, so I can watch?”

Maggie bit her lip. She hadn’t removed her clothing in front of a man before; her maid always undressed her, even during her marriage. But she wasn’t shy with Simon. Perhaps she should be, but he’d already seen most of her and anyway, what was one more pair of breasts? Male artists had been focusing on them since they first used sticks to draw in the dirt. And she’d seen enough art to know there were all different sizes and shapes. Hers were certainly not unique.

Grasping the hem of her shift, she lifted it over her head and tossed it to the floor.

Simon’s heavy-lidded gaze raked over her bare form. Everything inside her melted under his hot, appraising stare.

“Jesus, you are even lovelier than I imagined,” he breathed.

“I could say the same about you.”

“Show me,” he said, though it came out more like a plea than an order.

She climbed onto the massive bed and bent to press her mouth to the inside of his knee. The muscles in his leg jumped. Encouraged, she kissed her way up his thigh. The salty heat of his skin, the slight tickle of the wiry hair . . . She felt drugged on the smell and taste of him as she used her teeth and her tongue to mark her path, while Simon’s rapid exhalations echoed in the quiet of the bedchamber.

She nipped his hip bone and he sucked in a breath. Whereas her own experience had been rather limited, the bawdy engravings and illustrations that circulated through London had provided their own carnal education of sorts. The Lemarc sketches she’d produced for Madame Hartley showed couples engaged in all sorts of activities and positions of which Maggie had never dreamed. At the time, she’d dismissed them as fanciful imaginings. But now . . . now she yearned to explore. To discover. To please.

She swiped the tip of her tongue over the head of his engorged penis. His hips jerked.

“Oh, Christ,” he groaned. “Again, darling.”

She complied, this time starting at the root and working up the entire satiny length. When she reached the end, she wrapped her lips around him and sucked deep, drawing his thick erection into her mouth. His head and shoulders levered off the mattress, then dropped back down with a thud. He cursed, long and fluently, muscles tightening.

Remembering the motion of his hand earlier, she began to repeat the action with her mouth as best she could. If nothing else, surely it would feel pleasant enough— “My God,” he wheezed. “I won’t last if you keep that up.”

She wanted to smile, but clearly couldn’t, so instead she worked harder, the soft, steely velvet sliding between her lips and against her tongue. It gave her a measure of power to be able to pleasure him this way, to be the one in control. She’d never have guessed as much from the erotic drawings. But this was heady, indeed. The ache between her legs increased as she bobbed up and down over his shaft.