He lifted his head again. "Open your mouth for me. ”
Her eyes flew open again. "Why?"
It was the first word she'd spoken in quite a while, but her voice was husky and raw as if she'd been screaming.
"Because I want to kiss you that way. "
"I don't know what you're talking about. You need to let me—"
He covered her mouth again before she could say the fateful words, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth so he could taste her fully. She froze again, but he knew how to kiss, how to use his tongue and teeth to get the response he wanted. Her body softened first, then her jaw, then her mouth, accepting
He took his time then. He wanted her tongue in his mouth, he wanted her to draw his in and suck on it. He demonstrated, hoping she might get the idea, letting his tongue slide against hers, teasing, dancing, sucking, but she still didn't do anything more than let him.
And he wanted more. He'd told himself that acceptance was enough, but he'd been wrong. He wanted, needed participation.
"Kiss me back," he whispered, his own voice hoarse.
She started to shake her head, but he caught h
er chin in one strong hand, holding her still. "Kiss me back," he repeated in a rough voice.
Her eyes were huge. In the darkness her rich red hair looked black, and she looked up at him beseechingly. Don't ask me to let you go, he thought.
A slow smile curved his mouth as relief flooded him. "I'll show you," he said, claiming her mouth again, trying to control the sheer ferocity of his desire for her. He kissed her slowly, much more slowly than he wanted to, but after a moment he got into the feel of it, the slow, languorous sweep of his tongue in her mouth, the soft little bites, the lift and repositioning of his mouth over hers. The final, tentative touch of her tongue against his.
He wanted to throw back his head and laugh with triumph, but he didn't want to stop kissing her. He could feel the changes in her body, as it softened, flowed against his, and he wanted to push her against a wall, shove her robe up and take her right there.
He couldn't. He wasn't prone to kindly gestures, but her first time should be in a bed. Hell, her first time should be in her new husband's bed, but he wasn't going to give her that.
He also wasn't going to give her a baby. He would pull out, and her cousin would be able to provide the remedies most of their set used to prevent unwanted conception just in case. She would emerge from his little cave minus her innocence but not much more the worse for wear. She'd still be the same prissy old maid, and she'd conveniently forget her night of love in the bed of London's most notorious rake.
If he ended up letting her stay that long. Virgins were tedious—they cried and then professed themselves to be in love with their heartless seducers, because God forbid they should find any sexual pleasure that didn't come with a lifelong guarantee. Charlotte already thought herself in love with him, whether she admitted it or not. And she would most certainly cry.
Twice should be enough. Once to deflower her and take the edge off his suddenly overpowering need. A second time to go slowly and explore alternatives.
He could make her come, quite easily, but that might be a mistake. She was probably better off not knowing what she was missing, since her future wasn't likely to offer many opportunities. Most men wouldn't be able to see past the glasses and the scowl, they wouldn't appreciate her creamy, gold-flecked skin and rich mouth. If she ever married it would doubtless be to some widower or elderly bachelor who knew nothing about pleasing a woman and cared less, so she'd be happier without too many fond memories. Besides, it would take a lot of work bringing a newly deflowered virgin to completion. He'd be better off moving on to the next partner, sending this one back to the city.
Author: Anne Stuart
The others wouldn't like it. They'd want to share. Innocence was a highly prized commodity—there was nothing the Mad Monks liked better than to open the eyes of some starry-eyed virgin. They would expect him to pass her along, to be sampled in turn by lechers and degenerates and sodomites. . .
No, he wasn't going to let that happen. She would be his, and his alone, and once he tired of her he'd make certain she was out of reach of his more twisted compatriots.
He thought all this as he kissed her, as his erection pulsed at the front of his breeches, as her hands, trapped between their bodies, slowly began to move, sliding up his chest to finally clutch his shoulders. He thought all this, and then he stopped thinking at all, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, the sounds of her breath catching in her throat.
And he wanted, needed to hear the sound she made when she climaxed.
He moved her, slowly, carefully, against the door to his hidden room. He turned, leaning against it so that it opened, and he pulled her inside with him as the heavy door swung to a close with a satisfying thud.
Charlotte's senses were flooding her, a delicious cascade of taste and touch, of sounds and scent in the shadowy darkness. She knew she shouldn't let him, but for just this brief moment she couldn't bring herself to resist. This was Rohan, the man in her shameless dreams, the unconscionable rake who'd haunted her waking hours as well. She'd heard the salacious stories—she knew just how depraved he was. She'd read the carefully shielded reports in the newspapers about the Villainous Viscount. His father had been just as bad—it was no wonder he was totally without conscience of decency.
He was also a master at kissing. Even with her total lack of experience she could tell that much. Adrian, Viscount Rohan, was kissing her, tall, gawky Charlotte Spenser, when there were easily a dozen beautiful women who'd doubtless warm his bed quite happily. But he had followed her, somehow divining who she was. Knowing she was plain, spinsterish Charlotte, and he'd come after her, and now he was kissing her with such single-minded attention that he must like it, at least a little bit.
As far as she knew. Viscount Rohan never did anything he didn't find enjoyable.
His arms were around her, holding her against him, and her knees felt weak. She wanted to sink against him, just let go and have him gather her body against his. What harm could it do?
Very real harm, she thought dazedly as he kissed the side of her mouth, slow, lingering kisses. In another moment she'd shove him away, in another moment she'd run away, she'd find Lina, she'd. . . oh, God, if he'd only stop she could be strong. But as long as he held her like this she couldn't resist. She'd had so little, and her future was so bleat. Couldn't she have this much?