Chapter Eleven
Still drifting in a pleasant haze of sexual fulfillment, Allison watched as Quinn struggled with his conscience. She found it absolutely adorable. He’d been such a gentleman so far, and she knew most men wouldn’t have been. He was innately good and honorable, and in her opinion, that was one of his most endearing qualities.
However, in this one thing, she wanted him to give in to his passions.
The time they’d already spent together had been enlightening on so many levels, and she wanted to continue this exploration.
“Yes,” he murmured at last. “I am dying to have your hands on me, Allison.”
Scooting out from underneath her, he stood, facing her, and quickly undid his trousers, sliding them and his undergarments down his muscular legs. The long tails of his white shirt hung down, obscuring her view of the part of him she most wanted to see, so she reached up from her sitting position and undid his buttons, sliding the whole garment off his shoulders.
“I want to see all of you,” she whispered as the shirt fell to the floor, stunned by how powerful she felt to be sitting here in front of him, her breasts still spilling out of her bodice while he undressed in front of her.
He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers, locking his hands behind his back and standing tall and proud in front of her. She let her gaze sweep from his tousled golden hair and exquisitely chiseled face to his broad shoulders. His belly was all rippling muscle, strangely beautiful, in a way she hadn’t expected a man’s stomach to be. His hips were compact, and his legs strong. He had surprisingly little hair on his chest, just lots of golden skin and muscles.
At last, she let herself look at that part of him that was so foreign to her. It jutted out from the thatch of dark gold hair between his thighs, thick and turgid, looking as though his condition must surely be painful.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. She couldn’t stop thinking about the woman she’d seen at the warehouse taking the man’s... cock... in her mouth, but she couldn’t imagine doing that herself, at least not as her very first foray into getting to know Quinn’s gorgeous body.
“Oh, Allison,” he said softly, staring down at her with a pained expression. “Just touch me; wrap your hand around me.”
Biting her lip, she held his gaze and reached out, closing her fingers around him, though her hand wasn’t quite big enough to encircle him fully. He was hot and hard, though the skin there was surprisingly soft and silky, a strange juxtaposition. He moaned, closing his eyes and covering her hand with his own, coaxing her to move it up and down his shaft.
She immediately understood what they mimicked, and her face burned as she watched it, the way the head popped in and out of their enclosed fists. After a few moments, he let his own hand fall away, and she continued on herself as he let his head fall back in what seemed like pure ecstasy, thrusting his hips in rhythm to her motion, his whole body taut and focused on that part of him.
It both thrilled and terrified her, but she sensed that he was building toward the same incredible peak she’d just achieved herself, and she wanted that for him desperately. She wanted to make him feel as good as he’d made her.
Finally, he froze and cried out, and a jet of white liquid shot out of him and covered her hand in a sticky mess.
She gasped and sat back, not certain what had happened or what she should do.
He remained still for a moment longer, then collapsed on the sofa next to her, reaching down to grab his shirt and give it to her to wipe her hand off with. “That’s where babies come from,” he informed her, gesturing to the fluid. “If I did that while inside of you, there is a chance you could have a child.”
She gasped, then scrubbed her hand more furiously, wanting it nowhere near her.
He laughed roughly. “Don’t worry. It can’t travel through your hand.”
With a rueful glance, she tossed the shirt aside then sank back against him. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said, about it not being fair that women like me go to our marriage beds with no knowledge of what’s to come at all. Why aren’t we taught these things?”
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her more tightly against him, and pressed his lips to her head in a tender kiss. “I don’t know, princess. Perhaps some women are lucky enough to have mothers who explain it to them, though I doubt many married women of your class know much more than you do. How can they when the men come to them in the dark, thrust away, then leave?”
She sighed, enjoying the warmth of being nestled against his chest. Perhaps this, more than any of the rest of it, was why she’d come to him this evening. She’d wanted this closeness, this feeling of really being able to talk to someone in a meaningful way. “My mother has never said anything to me. I imagine even if I wed, she wouldn’t bother herself. She is a cold woman. Cold as ice.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know what she did to your brother, how she kept his child from him.”
She shivered. “He hasn’t forgiven her for that. None of us have. She’s forbidden in my brothers’ houses, and when I have a home of my own, I don’t think I’ll welcome her there either.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, squeezing her a little tighter. “I knew your brothers didn’t like her, but I had no idea you felt the same.”
She sighed. “Honestly, when I came back from France and found out what she’d done, I was rather horrible to her. But I thought that once we’d all had a chance to calm down, she’d reach out, insist that I come home to live with her, apologize. She never did. It seems as though she doesn’t care about any of her children who are still living. She just grieves over Roger and plots ways to get back at Lucien.”
“It must be difficult to be denied her love, even though you’re not certain you want it,” he said softly, the understanding in his voice bringing tears to her eyes. This was the first time she’d ever really voiced her longing for her mother’s love. Though truth to tell, her mother had never been much of a mother, even before Roger had done those terrible things.
As a child, she’d been raised by a series of nannies, who only brought her to see her mother right before bedtime. The countess had always seemed beautiful and remote, an ice queen who could never be touched.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I never mention her around my brothers. It feels as though I can’t talk about her at all.”
“You can always talk to me,” he assured her, though he sounded a bit drowsy.