“Then touch me. I want to know what it is you desire, Ma…sir. I want to understand what you’re feeling.”
But she thought she was understanding perfectly well already. She had understood the other day in the coach, when they drove around the park, twice. The look of hunger on his face, the glitter in his eyes, had made something similar happen inside her. Now her stomach clenched and a warmth washed over her, as if she were caught in a tidal surge and could not, did not want to, escape it.
He reached out and brushed her with his fingertips.
Light as the touch was, it made her shiver. She stared at him, lips parted in astonishment. He smiled wryly, and touched her again, using his thumb to rub against her nipple. She had never realized her own flesh could be so sensitive.
He cupped her breast in his palm, holding it like a gift, and then his arm came about her waist and he drew her forward, between his thighs, and he licked her with his tongue. Marietta’s hands clung to his head, pulling him closer. The sensation of his warm mouth against her was exquisite. She made a sound in her throat, like a purr, and he looked at her.
His face was taut with desire, his eyes blazing, and his mouth was smiling. Whatever struggle he had been involved in was over—Max had decided to give himself up completely to what she was offering. For a moment she was confused by his capitulation, but then, still watching her, he ran his hand over her stomach, clearly enjoying the sensation of her bare skin, and she let herself feel again. His fingers brushed up, under the silk blouse, and they were warm and knowledgeable. Her eyes flickered and she swayed.
“Max.”
“I’m a stranger, remember,” he said, with a certain irony. “I’m teaching you about desire. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Marietta?”
He was tense, awaiting her answer, and once again, although she did not understand him, she acquiesced. “Yes.”
“If you want to stop then you’d better say so. Now.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
His fingers reached the underside of her breast, and then his palm was molding to her full shape, caressing her, gently squeezing her. He met her eyes, as if to gauge her compliance, and then he leaned forward and covered the nipple with his mouth, hot and wet, and sucked at her through the silk.
Her knees crumpled.
He caught her, drawing her down onto his lap, and covered her face in little biting kisses, his hand still stroking her breasts. It was bliss, she thought. Complete and utter bliss…
Where was his other hand?
With a shock she realized it was on her knee, heavy and warm and full of intent. She opened her mouth to remind him of the rules, but he swooped down and covered it with his own, and for a time she was lost in the wonder of his kisses.
When she came to herself again, his hand was stroking her belly just above where the top of her trousers met bare skin, his finger dipping beneath the band. She was burning, aching, and it didn’t seem to matter whether or not he was touching her in places he wasn’t supposed to—her body wanted that finger to move further down. She arched against him with a groan.
“That’s the trouble with desire,” he murmured in a deep, sensuous voice. “The more you feel it the more you want. Be warned, darling Marietta, once I have you I’ll keep having you. Over and over again.”
“Just touch me,” she whispered. “I want you to touch me.”
Obediently he bent to suck at her breast, and her head fell back against his shoulder as if she had had too much wine. Drunk on desire, tipsy on passion. She giggled at the thought, and then gasped as his fingers slid down under the band of her trousers, and trailed through the feminine hair she had been so worried about being visible earlier. Such fears and worries had long since departed—the urgent need for him to touch her overshadowed all.
His fingers had opened her, found the swollen little nub, and Marietta arched against him with a low cry as pleasure spiraled through her. “Max,” she cried, in wonder and need.
“Soon,” he whispered, and he stroked against her slick skin, pressing further, into the warm heart of her.
She tried to push herself against him, sensing that that was where real pleasure lay, but he murmured reassurance, taking his time, slowly driving her insane. Marietta half lay against him, incoherent with the sensations he was drawing from her body, and for a time he seemed to be content to torment her.
And then he took his fingers away.
She sobbed out his name.
“Soon, d
arling Marietta,” he said, and bent to kiss her, caressing her breasts lightly, making her squirm again as the wave of need rose within her. There had to be an end to this, she thought desperately. There must be a climax to all this pleasure. Why did she not understand it? Why hadn’t she realized this before, with Gerard Jones? But she hadn’t, he had meant nothing, and it was as if this was her first time.
He turned her in his lap, helping her into a sitting position, so that her bottom rested upon his thighs, and her knees were bent, straddling him, while her bare feet pressed against the sofa on either side of his hips. Despite the silken trousers she felt exposed, vulnerable, open to him. She also felt as if her heart was about to explode with excitement.
Her hair was tumbling all about her—at some stage he had pulled out the combs—and now he caught it up in his hands and drew it back over her shoulders. For a moment he just looked at her, his glittering dark eyes running down over her body. The blouse was damp, where he’d put his mouth against the silk, and her nipples poked out through the cloth. His eyes rested on the curve of her stomach, and then the area below the trousers that hid nothing of the eager shadows between her legs. He ran his hands up her legs, over her knees and thighs, squeezing her hips with a murmur of approval, and she would have smiled if she had been able to.
Because Marietta realized that she did not feel like herself any more. This was what Elena and Aphrodite had meant. She was free, wild and powerful. Or perhaps she did feel like herself, but it was the self who lived hidden deep inside her—the courtesan.