Louise Allen - Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

Emboldened, she sought his other hand, brought it up to twine in her rippled locks, arched her neck and bent her head back, thrilling to the feel of his fingers against her scalp, the delicious shivery pull of his hand through her hair.

He caught her chin, steadying her. And bent his head toward hers.

He was going to kiss her, as he had the garden. A rush of memory awakened every sense, and a greedy exultation filled her.

She’d never be the mistress he’d hinted she become, never have days or weeks or months to delight in his company. But perhaps, if she could entice him to it, she might have tonight, just one night in which the coming together of man and woman held all the joy and tenderness that most intimate coupling should contain. A joy she had never yet experienced, and once he left her, likely never would.

Please, her mind whispered like a prayer as she raised her mouth to his. Give me one perfect night.

She opened her mouth to allow him entry. Encouraged by his moan of response, the sudden tightening of the fingers cupping her face, she tentatively moved her tongue to stroke his. She felt his body shudder, and in one swift move he slid his hand from her face to wrap his arm about her shoulders, binding her closer.

Yes, she wanted closer, wanted the plush of his tongue probing, exploring, igniting shivers of sensation that tingled all the way to her toes. She reached up to tangle her fingers in his dark hair, pull him nearer so she might launch her own exploration into the delicious peaks and valleys of his mouth.

The warmth of him heated her despite the barriers of greatcoat and wrapper, but she craved more contact, yearned to feel the bone and muscle of his body against hers. Impatient, she pulled loose her robe, tugged at the buttons of his coat.

With a shuddering gasp he broke away, pushed her back. “Ah, Sparrow, I want you too much. I must leave now, while I still can.”

“No!” she cried, catching his hand. “Please … don’t go. Not yet.”

He went entirely still, turning the full force of his gaze upon her. She stared back, desperate with hope and yearning.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “If I stay, I cannot promise to stop.”

“I know,” she said. “Please, stay.”

For another long moment he studied her. “So be it,” he said hoarsely, and kissed her hand.

Trembling at her unaccustomed boldness, she tugged him into motion and led him down the shadowy hall to her small bedchamber.

Through years of marriage she’d endured the invasion of her body, from the painful initiation on her wedding night until the last time Charleton had taken her, barely recovered from childbed. Each time, she’d accepted but never welcomed the forcible joining of a man’s flesh to her own. But now she wanted it, wanted the heavy weight of the earl’s flanks across her thighs, tautness of his belly against the roundness of her own, her breasts crushed under the muscle of his chest. Something feverish and urgent pulsed within her at the thought of that vital, thrusting part of him buried deep within her. She wanted the sound of his breathing gone crazed and ragged as he approached the peak, his cry of fulfillment as he surmounted it. And she wanted the sweet peace of his head pressed to her bosom as, sated and spent, he collapsed against her.

If she were fortunate, perhaps instead of springing up immediately afterward, he would be content to lie beside her, gifting her with the music of his breathing as it slowed. And if she were exceptionally lucky, perhaps he might doze while she held him close, daring to lightly trace the lines of his body, storing in her memory the contours of the strength and vitality she’d once been privileged to briefly hold to her breast.

While the earl closed the door behind her and deposited the candle on the bedside table, Laura stood, suddenly uncertain. Was the earl ready? Sometimes before the act, Charleton had required her to … stimulate him.

She turned to see the earl regarding her gravely. “Second thoughts?”

“Never.”

His eyes lit. Smiling widely, he shed his greatcoat and pulled loose his cravat. “Then come to me, Sparrow.”

Pulling off her wrapper as she went, she ran to his arms. He caught her, lifted her, laughing softly. Set her back on her feet and bent his head.

He kissed her gently this time, light, teasing, touches like the brush of rose petals against her lips, her chin, her cheeks. She murmured a protest, wanting more, and he obliged, tracing the outline of her mouth, sucking softly. The blade of his tongue found hers, the clash setting off shudders deep in her belly.

She swayed on her feet and he caught her against him. She shuddered again at the evidence of his readiness, surprisingly large and hard against her belly. Fire sparking at the center of her, instinctively she rubbed herself against it.

He moaned and took the kiss deeper. Panting now, she urged him to the bed, trying with one hand to pull up her night rail while she settled back against the pillows. She parted her legs and drew him toward her, her trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons of his breeches.

He caught her hand and stilled it, then moved her cupped palm slowly over his rigid length. “S-sweet,” he gasped, the sound nearly a groan. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her fingers away and kissed them. “But not yet.”

“Not yet?” she echoed, bewildered. “But … are you not—ready?”

“You are not,” he said.

“But … I am!” she wailed, fretful with need and mystified at the delay. “D-do you want me to do … something else?”

He chuckled. “Nothing, my sweet sparrow. Just let me look at you.”

She stared at him, wondering if they were speaking the same language. “You … are looking at me,” she pointed out.

“True,” he returned gravely, though his lips twitched as if at some private joke. “But I can’t see nearly enough.”

“Then light another candle,” she said crossly and bit her lip, tears threatening. Was she doing something wrong? Suddenly she felt awkward and unsure. Had her boldness revolted him? Surely he wouldn’t—“You’re not going to leave?” she blurted.

His smile changed, from amusement to tenderness, and the warmth of his gaze held her motionless. “Never, my sparrow. I’ll never leave you.”

The words caught her like a blow to the chest. Scarcely able to breathe through the tightness, she’d not have managed a reply even had her brain been functioning well enough to formulate one. All she knew was she wanted to be joined with him, her body a gift offered joyfully, gratefully for his pleasure.

Leaning on one elbow, she reached back for him. But before she could seize his breeches flap, he reached over to grasp her ankle. Puzzled once more, she stilled, watching as he bent low over her leg. And kissed the soft skin at the instep of her foot.

She gasped, the sensation both ticklish and powerfully pleasurable. The vibrations he set off there seemed somehow to directly intensify the prickly, achy tenderness of her breasts, the pulsing fullness between her thighs. Then he lifted her foot and stroked the hot wetness of his tongue across her toes, took the littlest into his mouth and sucked it.

An immediate response rocketed through her. She seemed to lose control of her limbs, felt herself sag back against the pillows, her heartbeat loud and rapid in her ears, as if she’d been chasing Misfit while playing fetch. Seeming oblivious to her disintegrating faculties, the earl made a leisurely progress across her toes, stimulating each in turn, then inching her night rail higher to kiss her ankle, tantalize her shins with his tongue.