“The two of us intimately joined.” He bent close. “But first, rub me . . . please. You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of having my . . . er . . . pencil in your hand.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I’ve never heard it called that by the ‘fallen females.’” She stroked his aroused flesh through his drawers, marveling at how he responded so readily to her touch. “And this is quite a bit more . . . substantial than a pencil.”
“I’m trying to be . . . a gentleman,” he choked out. “But that’s probably fruitless . . . I have no self-control where you’re concerned.” He grabbed her hand. “God, enough.” He undid his drawers, then shoved both his pantaloon trousers and his drawers down below his behind. “I need to be inside you, sweetling.”
Inside. She was trying to decide if she still wanted that. Because what she could see of his . . . interesting equipment was rather daunting. The rod of flesh, jutting out as if seeking company, and the red bollocks. This was the moment. He meant to enter her with that. Would it hurt too very much? Or would it be like so many other things—something that didn’t live up to its reputation?
“Try not to worry,” he rasped, his gaze centered on her.
How had he guessed? Was she that transparent?
“You know how this works?” he asked. “Your ‘fallen females’ told you?”
“They did. Although I had a hard time believing it at first.”
This second mention of the “fallen females” reminded her—she hadn’t thought to bring her sponge! But she wasn’t about to risk telling him and having him stop now. Besides, how likely was it that she would find herself with child from one encounter?
“I will take it very slowly, I swear.” He fingered her between her legs until she moaned low in her throat. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course.” She grabbed his arms. “I want this, too, you know.” Partly to emphasize that and partly just because she ached for more, she pushed her mons against his hand, prompting him to fondle her more. “Oh, yes, that’s splendid.”
“Then let’s get you a bit more comfortable,” he said with a cheeky grin, and shoved her skirts to the top of her thighs. When he lifted her off the cushion enough to push the fabric up around her waist so her bare bottom sat on the cushion, she couldn’t help marveling at his strength.
He pulled up her knees on either side of him. His motions were so swift that she had a moment of panic. Then he used his hand to continue arousing her, waiting until she relaxed some before he oh so slowly pushed his aroused flesh into her.
Well! That was interesting. It didn’t so much hurt as seem like an intrusion. A rather large intrusion in a rather tight place.
“Are you . . . all right?” he asked, as if hesitant to hear her answer.
“As soon as I adjust to it, I will be.” She hoped. She prayed, although it was probably blasphemous to pray for God to make her fornication more comfortable.
Oh, she didn’t want to think about that. So she pulled down his head, placed his free hand on her breast, and kissed him with all the wantonness she could muster. If she must be a sinner, she would make sure to be good at it.
“You feel . . . glorious,” he whispered against her mouth. “Wet and sweet and capable of bringing me to my knees, I fear.” Then he began to move in and out below. He shifted his hand from her breast to the small of her back so he could pull her into him. “Lock your legs behind my arse.”
“Language, Geoffrey,” she teased him, but did what he’d ordered.
Good heavens, but that certainly made a difference. Her body shifted marvelously to meet his forward motion, and suddenly each of his thrusts thrummed a very sensitive part of her privates, starting a sort of pleasurable hum between her legs that got stronger by the thrust.
Soon they were in a rocking motion, with her nearly half off the table as he drove into her in thundering, silken plunges that took her by surprise. So very hot . . . and raw . . . and wonderful.
It wasn’t magical or mystical or any of those soft, hazy feelings. It was earthy, like rain and lightning, like river water rushing over rocks. They were gasping for air together, panting hard, until she didn’t know whose breath was whose.
“Geoffrey . . . Geoffrey . . .” she said hoarsely, her body wrapped around him, clinging to him so he could show her the way.
“Whatever you want . . . is yours . . . my goddess Diana. . . .”
For a man who said he didn’t wish to marry, he certainly was possessive.
Now she felt as if he were dangling fruit above her, urging her to reach for it, grab for it. She had to have it, a sheer, unadulterated need for it taking her over more and more by the minute. Her pleasure seemed just beyond reach. She jumped, stretched toward it, had to have it, had to have him, faster and harder, pushing her higher so maybe she could . . . just . . . get it....
“Oh my,” she whispered as her ache for it rose to a fever pitch within her that spurred her that last inch up. “That’s . . . quite . . . Oh, God, Geoffrey . . . Geoffrey . . . yes!”
And with that she finally tasted her fruit of paradise.