Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(55)

Hell, the only mistress he’d had, years ago, hadn’t figured out how to pleasure him like this.

When he couldn’t take it any longer, he shifted over her in one smooth movement, pushing her gently onto her back. “If you touch me like that much longer, I’ll come. I could do the same for you, and we can save the ravishing for another day.”

“This isn’t ravishing?” Diana’s eyes were sparkling and her lips had the curve that he’d fallen in love with, as if joy was air she breathed.

“I am ravished,” he said, meaning it.

She pouted, an expression he’d never seen and instantly approved of, and said, “I want more.”

His body flamed with the absolute determination to give her whatever she wanted.

“Please, North.”

Without hesitation, he shifted back, pried her luscious thighs apart, and lowered his head so that he could lick her. She tasted like tart honey, perfect Diana: fresh, lovely, and unlike any other woman.

He banished that thought. He hadn’t had another woman since he met Diana. He didn’t even want to think about another woman, ever again.

He concentrated on this moment, this pink, beautiful pussy in front of him, Diana squealing, writhing, grabbing his hair to hold him in place. Her hips arching in the air, her hands tightening, a breathless cry, another—

Silence because she was shaking so hard she couldn’t make a sound. If he’d had to guess, he’d say that Diana was an expert in many things, but perhaps not in this.

Sure enough . . .

“What was that?” She sat upright, sweat-drenched hair, wild eyes, happy mouth.

“That was the beginning.” He couldn’t wait any longer. “I’m going to make love to you now, so this is your last chance to avoid being ravished.”

She fell backward. “If that was the beginning, I could never refuse.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Still, he bent over her, catching her eyes, because, damn it, they weren’t married. He was taking a risk, a gamble, and so was she. He was gambling with his heart, and she with the virtue that no one believed she still had.

“Yes.” She sighed, and tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. “Kiss me, North.”





Chapter Thirteen




Diana and Rose had been young girls when their mother addressed the topic of conjugal intimacies with them. She had been brisk but detailed. Very detailed. She had bluntly told her daughters that she hadn’t married into the gentry by being a prude.

“Your daughters can be prudish,” she had told them. “You still need to overcome the grocer.” That was how Mrs. Belgrave referred to her own father, as “the grocer.”

Her mother’s instruction had gone on to detail the services a woman can offer her husband.

So far this night, North was playing Diana’s body as if it were a violin, and Diana hadn’t used any of her expertise. Fragments of her mother’s advice drifted through her head.

“He might wish to spurt on your breasts. Hold them like this.” Her mother had pressed her hands together. “Let him spank you.”

North was smoothing a French letter onto himself, just as her mother had demonstrated on a cucumber.

“Did you bring that with you?” she asked.

He nodded, and gave her a smoldering but bluntly honest look. “I started carrying it lately. Just in case you allowed me to seduce you.”

Given her sister’s experience, there was something to be said for waiting until marriage. Unless—Diana thought with a surge of independence—your reputation is already ruined, and you’ve turned down the only marriage proposal you’ve ever received. Twice.

“Diana,” North said softly. He had secured the French letter and was hovering over her. “Are you quite certain?”

Her smile came straight from her heart, meant for this thoughtful, intelligent, blindingly handsome man who had become a true friend in the last few days. A friend was so much better than a betrothed.

“Yes,” she said. “I just want you to know that I will put all my expertise to work when I catch my breath. I know I haven’t been doing it right.”

He had an odd look in his eyes. “There’s no right or wrong way.” When he finished kissing her again, they were both panting. Diana braced herself.

Her mother had been very clear about this moment. “Scream whether it hurts or not,” she had said. “The man deserves your virginity, and sometimes the pain is a mere pinch. He expects it. Without the knowledge of your lost virginity, your marriage is already on the wrong footing.”

She and Rose had looked at each other, mouths open. “It’s deranged,” she had told her sister later. “Your husband wants you to be in pain? Absolutely deranged.”

“I’m ready.” She smiled at North, smiled because he would never want her to experience pain in the act of making love.

Sure enough, he hesitated. “There may be some discomfort.”

She burst into giggles. “I was just remembering that my mother told me to scream so you would know you got your money’s worth, to put it bluntly.”

His jaw tightened, and he muttered something about her mother.

Diana couldn’t stop laughing.

“Do you know what happens to your breasts when you giggle?” North asked, his voice strangled.