A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (13 page)

“Oh,” she gasped. “It's growing . . . bigger.”

He dropped over her until his mouth grazed the tender skin of her neck. “That's what you do to me.” He kissed his way down her throat, fastening his mouth over her breast through the sheer fabric of her dress, sucking until her nipple beaded hard and she arched into his mouth.

“M-­More.”

He wasn't even certain what that meant, what
more
even was. He wasn't even certain if she knew. All he knew was that he needed her, too.

He released his grip on her hand, leaving her there, fingers splayed over the length of him. She continued to explore, her slender fingers pressing and stroking his straining cock. His skin pulled tight at the base of his skull and his breath fell faster. He bit lightly, nipping at her breasts through the wet fabric, cupping them with both hands, his thumbs rolling over her nipples until she was shuddering and crying out sweetly in his arms.

Her hands still caressed him through his trousers. If he didn't compose himself, he would lose himself like some green boy. He locked hard fingers around her wrist, stalling her movements.

She lifted her mouth to his neck, her lips moving as she spoke. “Please. May I touch it . . . you?”

The whispered request undid him. He froze for a moment, holding her gaze, wondering how he could stand much more of this. And then the answer came swift and resounding in his head . . . in the hard pump of blood in his veins.
He couldn't. Not anymore.

He pulled up, yanking open the front of his breeches, briefly severing the sweet torture of her hand on him. And then he was free, his cock jutting between them.

Her eyes fixed on him, her mouth parted in wonder. Neither one of them moved or spoke. Indeed, it seemed neither one of them breathed.

He couldn't move. He didn't trust himself. Her gaze alone felt like a caress. He inhaled, holding himself in check.

“Oh . . . I've never seen . . .”

He smiled, almost in pain. Of course she hadn't. He almost wished she wasn't so inexperienced. It wasn't his habit to debauch virgins. He felt like the veritable scoundrel stealing away with a maiden's virtue. His arms strained, holding himself in check over her.

Then she touched him. Those slight fingers wrapped around him. Her bare hand to his manhood, skin to skin. His cock pulsed and he forgot everything except sensation and mind-­obliterating need.

 

Chapter 16

H
is mouth crashed over hers and she could only think that it wasn't enough. The pressure of his lips and tongue ravaging her wasn't enough. She mewled, writhing and wiggling under him, her hand never releasing him. She loved the feel of him. Like silk over steel in her hand. She reveled in the way he shuddered and groaned as she worked her fingers on him, rubbing her thumb over the tip of him until she felt moisture rise there to kiss her skin.

Her other hand moved up, touching his bare chest. She ran her hands over his abdomen and then higher up his chest. Because she could. Because she was free to do so. She savored the cut of heavy muscle under the warm, contracting skin. The tight nipples that shrank under her questing fingers.

“I have to touch you,” he growled. “It's my turn.”

Before she understood fully, he slid down her body. His hands found her thighs, splaying them wider, and then his face was between them.

“What are you—­”

“Ssh. Trust me. I won't do anything you don't like. Nothing that won't give you pleasure.”

And then his fingers were there, sliding against her wetness, parting her. She started, startled at the hand there, touching her in ways she had never touched herself. His hand drifted up, finding and pressing on a spot that had her crying out and arching.

“There you are,” he said in a deeply satisfied voice. There was a shifting of his weight, a rustling of fabric as he moved, and then his mouth! Dear Lord, he placed his mouth on her.

She cried out, sitting up, her hands seizing his head buried between her thighs. He pressed a hand to the flat of her stomach, forcing her back down with a deep, guttural groan as he feasted on her, his mouth sucking on that tiny nub, drawing it between his lips and flaying it with his tongue. Instantly she came apart, flying into a million little pieces. He eased his mouth then, licking at the over-­sensitized little button even as he slipped one finger inside her, stretching her.

“Oh, so bloody tight,” he moaned against her, his finger working in and out. In and out. Again she felt the pressure building. She panted, her fingers still flexing in his hair. He raked his teeth against that nub again and she cried, pushing herself against his mouth, greedy for more, stunned that any of this was possible. He shifted his wrist then, did something marvelous with his finger, brought it up, hitting some hidden, secret place within her, and the pressure inside her burst.

Again she shook and flew apart.

He came over her again and she felt him. The hardness of him against her thigh. Instinctively, she sought him, arching, wanting that hardness thick inside her. He dragged his mouth against her neck, biting and sucking at the tendon there. She wiggled until she felt the head of him at her opening.

“God,” he gasped. “You're so wet. So ready.”

She nodded dumbly. Past thinking. Feeling only.

“Tell me. Ask for it,” he pleaded.

She opened her mouth. It was there. On the tip of her tongue. The engorged tip of him prodded the opening of her channel, and her eyes flew wide. His hand moved between them, and she felt him grasp himself, better positioning that part of him against her, ready to slide within.

Good God
! She had not meant to go this far. No.
No!

He stiffened over her, and she realized she must have uttered the words out loud.

S
he grabbed his wrist, her voice ringing out desperately in the air, which was thick with the smell of them. “Wait. Stop.”

He froze instantly, sucking in a deep breath.

She sat up and shoved her skirts back down over her legs. He backed away, needing the distance to stop himself from touching her, from hauling her back into his arms again. He expelled a deep breath and dragged his hands through his hair, stopping when he saw that his hands were shaking. He folded his fingers into fists and sucked in more air, reaching for restraint.

“This is too much.” She shook back the sleek fall of hair from her shoulders and pressed her hands to her cheeks as if that would somehow help her cool them. “I didn't mean for this to go so very far.”

“A week ago I had to steal a kiss from you.” His voice shook a little as he said this, and he swallowed. “You may not believe me, but this was not my plan.”

“Of course. That was not my thought. I sent you the letter, after all, requesting your presence.”

Nodding, he inched away . . . although a part of him felt like lashing out like a petulant child at her. Had she lured him here only to torment him? If that were the case, she could count herself successful.

“And you didn't steal it.” Her fingers brushed her swollen mouth as though still feeling him there. “Tonight . . . this was all me. I initiated this. I'm to blame.” Her throaty voice broke at that, and he looked to her sharply, wondering at the thread of emotion he heard.

“Why did you send me the note?” What had she expected? What did she want? She clearly wasn't a girl willing to forget herself in an illicit liaison, so what was this about, then?

She scooted to the edge of the bed, curling her fingers around the side and hunching her shoulders. “I'm sorry. You must think me contrary. I merely wanted something for myself before . . .”

Her voice faded.

He moved to the edge of the bed, tucking himself back in and fastening his trousers. “Before?”

She turned her face to him. “Before I'm gone.” Her voice was hoarse and whisper-­soft, as though she was afraid saying it aloud would make it happen—­would make her disappear right then. “While I'm still me.”

He angled his head. She made no sense. Who else would she be? Instead of asking, he settled for: “Are you leaving Town?”

“No. Yes . . . I mean, I don't know.” She gave her head a small shake. The black strands swished sharply. Her hand went to her hair self-­consciously as though checking it, and that's when he knew it was a wig. “Perhaps, I will. I didn't mean . . .” A pause fell before she continued, admitting, “I'm to be wed.”

Everything came together then, clicking. “Ah. Now I understand,” he murmured, feeling unaccountably angry. He stood in one swift move and turned, towering over her. “So you wished to have a little fun first for yourself. Was that it? Or, wait.” He held up his hand. “Are you honing your skills so that you might please your husband? Learning what to do while stopping short of the full act?”

She stared up at him with her eyes wide through the eyeholes of her domino. “You are angry.” It was part statement, part question.

He knew he had no right to snap at her. There were no promises or expectations between them. Those things didn't exist at Sodom. So she was to be married. Half the women who frequented this establishment were already married. He'd never cared about that before. Why did he care now?

Even as he asked himself this he knew.
Because she was the second female to stir something in him. The second one that he could not possess. First Rosalie and now her.

She rose from the bed. “You can't possibly understand. What would a man in your position know about being helpless and vulnerable, subject to the whim of others?”

Everything
. He understood helplessness and vulnerability. In a way he would never admit. His throat tightened but he refused to give voice to the sudden dark thoughts swirling through him.

He followed her, stalking really, feeling dangerous in mood. “You're here, are you not?” He looked her up and down in her gown that invited a man's touch. The shape of her breasts through the fabric was clearly outlined. He could discern the pebbled tips of her nipples, and the distraction, the urge to taste them again, only angered him. “Women who come here know what they want. That's why they're here. They're in control. They're not vulnerable. This isn't the place vulnerable or helpless females frequent. Someone should have made that clear to you.”

She made a sound that was part snort, part growl. “Oh, you're insufferable. Clearly it was a mistake to reveal anything of my true self—­”

He laughed roughly. “You want to reveal something of yourself?” He stepped closer, and she took a step back. His hands curled into fists at his sides. The temptation was there, to rip the mask from her face. “Let's begin with your name. Your face. Your bloody hair!”

She drew a hissing breath. “This has gone far enough.” She turned and reached for a cloak draped on the corner of the bed that he had not noticed before. She flung it around her shoulders, her movements jerky. “You know I cannot—­”

“Go home. Marry. Show him what you've learned from me. He should count himself very fortunate indeed.” She froze at his deliberately cruel words. Her back still to him, he moved behind her, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel his hardness against the small of her back. “But know that when you're with him, you'll be thinking of me.”

A shudder racked her body. He stroked a hand down her false hair. He picked up the mass of it, brought it over her shoulder and grazed his mouth over the tender skin of her neck. She made that sound again. That delicious hitch of her breath. He bit down softly where her shoulder and neck met, let his teeth scrape the skin he knew was so very sensitive. She jerked a little, making a soft, strangling sound low in her throat.

She lurched away from the press of his body and bolted for the door, fumbling for the latch.

He watched her go, his hand dropping to his side as she slipped from the room without a backward glance.

S
he made her way to Mrs. Bancroft's private rooms where she quickly shed the scandalous plum-­colored gown she had borrowed from the proprietress. Once again in her own modest clothing, she kept the domino just to be safe, repositioning it on her face and covering herself head-­to-­toe with her cloak. She wrote a hasty note of thanks to Mrs. Bancroft, knowing she would never be back. Tonight had to be the last time. Satisfied, she headed back down the stairs, still shaking,
still
longing.

She moved blindly, seeing nothing of her surroundings. The need to flee pumped through her blood with urgency. If she didn't leave now, she'd lose everything. She'd lose herself.

She had only thought of her desire to see him again. Nothing else had mattered. She had not considered how much worse, how much harder, it would be to walk away this time.

The doorman fetched a hack for her and saw her safely inside. She managed to hold on until she was safely ensconced in the hack and on her way back to her mother's house. She smoothed a shaking hand over the skirts of her familiar sensible gown before bringing both of her hands up to her face. With a ragged exhale, she released a choked sob into her curled fingers.

Coming to Sodom had been a selfish, desperate act. She had sent the missive to Dec because she felt drowning and helpless beneath her mother's roof. Lonely and aching . . .

She wanted to escape her existence even if for just a little while. And she couldn't stop thinking about Dec. She missed him. She couldn't stop remembering his kiss and thinking how she would never have that again.

It had been rash. She'd very nearly given everything to him tonight. And not just her virtue—­although that very nearly happened. She had actually toyed with the idea of removing her domino and tossing her wig aside that moment at the end when he had come up behind her.

When had she become so foolish? A girl who thought that the stepbrother who never wanted anything to do with her might actually want her?
Her
. Rosalie. She lifted her face from her hands. A tear rolled down her cheek and she dashed it away with clumsy fingers.

The house was silent when she crept around to the servants' entrance. She rapped twice at the door and Mrs. Potter appeared as promised, opening the door for her. The housekeeper hadn't asked for details when Rosalie requested her help, simply agreed with a smile and a wink.

With a nod of thanks, Rosalie slipped inside and fled to her chamber, pushing the trunk back into place against the door. A precaution that might not be necessary anymore, but one she wouldn't neglect, nevertheless.

She'd taken enough risks for the night. She was quite finished with living on the edge, reaching for things that weren't to be. She needed to get out of this house. And she needed to forget about Dec.

She wasn't certain which would be harder to do.