Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

She searched his eyes, instinctively accepted that as truth. Yet…

He leaned closer, lips swooping, nearing as his hands rose, fingers reaching for the tiny ribbon bows securing her silk chemise. The last flimsy barrier screening her from his sight.

Dizzy desperation gripped her; she sank her fingers into his shoulders. “I—”

He hesitated, but when she couldn’t find the words— any words that made sense—he closed the inch between their lips, kissed. Drew back enough to breathe, “You know where we’re headed, don’t you? You know what lies at the end of our road.”

Her lips were dry, yearning, hungry. She forced herself to nod. “Yes.”

“Then there’s no reason I shouldn’t see you, bare you, and look my fill. No reason I shouldn’t take what pleasure I wish with you, in you—and you shouldn’t take all you wish of me.”

His lips closed on hers, warm and beguiling; he didn’t rip her wits away, didn’t send them spinning, but left her aware, attuned, every nerve tight and flickering.

So she knew when his fingers closed on the ribbon ties, so she felt the tugs as he unraveled the bows, then slowly, gently, inexorably eased the fine fabric down. Exposing her breasts.

And then his hands were on her, hot skin to hot skin. He caressed, fondled, kneaded, squeezed. Her senses filled, overflowed; sensation rushed through her, down her nerves, down her veins.

She couldn’t think, no longer had space in her mind for that activity, swept away, consumed by the dizzying splendor, the bone-melting pleasure he pressed on her. His lips left hers; he nudged her head back, skated his lips down the taut tendon to settle over her pulse point, heating her blood still further. Her fingers, until then gripping his shoulders, eased; she sent her hands sliding over and back, found and caressed his nape.

His lips left her throat and slid lower. Splaying her fingers, she speared them through his thick locks, then clutched. Eyes closed, she held tight as his burning lips cruised the upper swells of her breasts. Then dipped lower still.

Her world stopped when his lips found one aching peak.

Splintered when he took it into his mouth.

Hot, wet, he caressed, laved, licked, than gently rasped.

Her breasts felt on fire, tight, taut; head tilting back, she gasped, spine tensing as he artfully teased, then openly feasted. Then he shifted, drew the aching, tormented peak deep, and suckled.

The jolt of sensation rocked her, shocked her, surprised a small cry from her. Her fingers spasmed on his skull. Eyes shut, she struggled to cope, to cling to sanity as with mouth, lips, and tongue, hard fingers and palms, he pressed sensation after sensation upon her.

Through her fingers, through the tension gripping her, Tony read her increasing desperation. Every sense he possessed was locked on her, watching, gauging…he eased back.

Heard in her tortured breathing a return from the brink of panic.

He didn’t take his lips from her skin, but traced, kissed lightly, soothed with gentle caresses. When she’d calmed enough to be lucid, he cupped both breasts in his palms, straightened slightly, shifting between her spread thighs. Bent again to touch his lips to the hot satin skin of the now swollen mounds. “Didn’t your husband caress you like this?”

Her lids cracked open. From behind the screen of her lashes, her eyes met his. A moment passed, then she licked her lips. Tried to speak, ended by shaking her head.

When he waited, she dragged in a breath. “No. He…”

Primitive joy streaked through him. He waited; when she remained silent, he prompted, “Wasn’t inclined to see to your pleasure?” A common enough failing, after all.

She shuddered. Beneath his hand, he could feel her heart still pounding, but slower. Her skin was still heated; he kept it that way, idly kneading, caressing.

Again she drew breath, again met his eyes. “I… don’t know all that much about… pleasure.”

The word came out on a soft exhalation; she closed her eyes as he again bent and savored one tightly budded nipple. He released it, blew gently on it, then soothed it again.

Lifting his head to examine the effect, he murmured, “It’ll be my pleasure to teach you.” Shifting his hands, he set his thumbs to circle her nipples.

“I—that’s why…” She broke off, drew in a hissed breath. “Why it must be slow…”

On his shoulders, her fingers tensed again, but not, this time, with any sense of desperation. He watched her face as he caressed. “Forget about your husband. Forget all you ever knew.” Keeping one hand on her breast, he slid the other to the small of her back and eased her to the sideboard’s edge. His hand still at her breast, he bent his head to take her mouth.

Before he did, he murmured, his voice low, gravelly, decided. “Start again. With me. I’ll teach you all you should know, all you need to know.”

Her fingers slid to his nape, cupped as he covered her lips, held tight as he plunged into her mouth and took possession. Plundered, ravished, devoured as he wished; she met him, went with him, followed him deeper. Until the exchange became a flagrant echo of that other intimacy, until hot and heated she clung to the rhythm, matching him, sating his hunger as it rose, learning of her own.

He’d pressed her thighs wide; her silk skirts lay in a spill covering her knees, but beneath…he knew precisely what he would find when he released her breast and slid his hand beneath the folds of silk.

The skin of her inner thighs was as fine as the silk, as delicate, but far warmer. She was too deep in the kiss to do more than vaguely register as he stroked, caressed. Deliberately, he let her surface, step by step until he sensed her sudden awareness, felt the gasp smothered between their lips as she realized.

She started to tense; he deepened the kiss, just enough to distract her, to fracture her attention long enough to let him explore further. To reach higher and find her, swollen and fever-damp, hot enough to scald.

Slow. Step by step.

He forced himself to do no more than touch her, to find the tiny nubbin within the folds and caress, but go no further.

Tiny shivers of sensation coursed through her as he stroked, gently pressed. He knew what he might do, knew the potential, but sensed she wasn’t ready for that yet.

Alfred Carrington must have been an insensitive clod.

He continued to touch her gently, undemandingly exploring, letting her grow accustomed to him touching her there, to the intimacy, mild to his mind though it was.

Step by step.

He let her surface by degrees, let her awareness rise free from the drugging kisses, until at the last he could raise his head and watch her face. Watch her lips, parted and swollen as he circled, then pressed lightly. Catch her eyes as he stroked, and she shuddered.

Then softly sighed.

She dropped her forehead to his shoulder. After a moment, said, “This is all so—”

She broke off. He stroked again, felt her shiver. “More than you expected?”

Against his shoulder, she nodded. “Much, much more.”

Satisfied with the way events were proceeding not just with Alicia but also with his investigation, Tony felt distinctly mellow, a prey to pleasurable anticipation as the next evening he went upstairs to change.

He’d reached the landing when a heavy knock fell on the front door.

He recognized the knock. Halting, he waited, one hand on the balustrade as Hungerford strode majestically to the door. He’d recognized the knock, too. He pulled open the door, revealing Maggs.

Hungerford looked down his nose. “I believe you know where the back entrance is?”

“’Course I do. Live here, don’t I?” Maggs lumbered in, his hat in his hands. “But I’m supposed to be Mrs. Carrington’s footman. If I came with a message, I wouldn’t come to the back door, would I?”