“I need you,” he said simply. “Make me forget. Touch me.”
Tentatively she let her fingers brush—and touched the mythical velvet-over-steel she had read about so many times. Nothing could describe the marvelous sensation of his intimate warmth against her skin. And it was truly satin soft yet rigid, and it jumped beneath her touch with a mind of its own.
Her heart leaped into a frantic rhythm.
She clamped her hand around the shaft as he caught her in another kiss, a long, slow kiss that melted her like wax to a flame. She was gripping his poor cock to keep herself from pooling to the floor.
Brandy taste tingled on her tongue as he broke the breathless kiss. Laughing, he took a staggering step. Terrified she’d hurt him, with her hand wrapped around his remarkably pulsing member, she moved back, too.
His hands pulled up her skirts, and she gasped at the sight of satin wrinkled by his hands as her hem rose higher and higher.
His hot breath danced against her ear. “I promise, Verity, when I want to use fucking to make me forget, I am very, very good.”
What did he want so much to forget? His hand cupped her inner thigh, and she struggled to think. The roughness of his palm, the strength of his fingers, the reverence of his touch—all conspired to send her wits whirling, shattering.
A man’s hand was on her thigh.
Lord Swansborough’s hand was on her thigh.
Sliding up, up to the juncture between. His palm cupped her hot, wet nether lips; his fingertips delved inside her cunny.
His hand shifted; the heel pressed that magical place all the courtesans wrote of. The clitoris. Obviously Lord Swansborough knew exactly what he was—
Oh, lord.
Hazily, through shattering pleasure, she saw his smile, saw the roguish curve of his lips. She clung to his arm, to the chair beside her. Oh, it was so…so much. Beyond words…so far beyond her skill with words—
She tried to back away as he flexed his hand and slowly, torturously increased the pressure and slipped his fingers between her damp nether lips. Her juices were lush, thick, bubbling from inside her.
In her fantasies, she had gazed into his magnetic black eyes and shared the deepest intimacy. Never had she dreamed it could be real. That she would see how long his sweeping black lashes truly were. That she would see his eyes sparkle for her.
He bent to the swell of her breasts, the lightly freckled curves, and ran his tongue over them. Heat washed over her as though a thousand wicks had caught flame at once. She was gazing down at Lord Swansborough’s silky black hair while he licked her breasts!
Thick and gleaming, blue-black beneath the soft candlelight, his hair tempted her to touch. She coasted her palms over its softness, barely touching, gasping at the tickle across her hands. Even at that light, feathery caress, he began to suckle. His beautiful mouth left a trail of warm wetness over her tingling skin.
Emboldened, she slid her fingers into his hair. Savored the silky feel.
It was dizzying to touch him so.
She wanted to touch more.
Beneath her lashes, she saw his naked body—his wide shoulders, the lean line of his abdomen, and his magnificent, amazing cock bobbing as he kissed her. As his fingers stroked and teased between her thighs.
She tried to cling desperately to sense. But all she wanted was more stroking, harder stroking, rougher, faster—
His mouth slanted over hers as the pleasure became almost unbearable. She knew this…had read it so many times…had brought herself to this wonderful, exquisite point. She’d learned through naughty touching how she liked her release, but it was so much more intriguing to have his masculine fingers rasping between her curls to rub her clit.
His touch made her tremble, made the perspiration spill between her breasts, made it almost impossible to breathe. But she needed…just a little different rhythm. He was in control, but she rubbed hungrily against his hand. Oh, yes, she loved his touch, but she was hurtling toward climax, and his caresses were not…not exactly the rhythm, the speed to take her to ecstasy.
She knew she loved his touch, but she knew her body.
“Yes, my lady of truth, take yourself there.” He urged it against her ear, and his lips lowered to play sensual magic against her neck.
She grasped his hand. Not quite so direct a touch…a little higher…more of a tug—
Perfect!
What must he think? Was he offended? He let her guide his hand; he even smiled—lips kicking up on the right side, his cheek dimpling.
What did she care if he was angry? She wanted…needed…
She drove toward her climax like a madwoman.
She cried out as it took her. Barely heard his raw, masculine laugh as she rocked with it.
“Come against my hand, my love.”
She did, crying out, a slave to the pulsing muscles, the waves of sheer pleasure pounding through her. Her head tipped forward, her mouth opened wide.
Was this the lure of sensual writing—not the orgasm, but the deep joy, the wonderful sense of intimate connection with a gentleman she’d longed for over months?
It was ending, the waves dying slowly away. He scooped her up, her skirts hanging about her hips to the floor. Floating still, in pleasure, she locked her hands around his neck. Her fingers grazed smooth, sensually enticing skin.
“This room is filled with intriguing devices to enhance pleasure.”
Dazed, she met Swansborough’s amused gaze. Midnight black and twinkling. “Devices?”
“If you are part of the treasure hunt, love, you are supposed to be tied up and whipped.”
She hadn’t realized that. Even though she was still boneless from her climax, she felt color drain from her face.
He settled her on the chaise, and she let go of his neck to drop on the silk-covered, elegant surface. She realized, still catching her breath, still throbbing deep in her quim, that his cock was hard, rigid, and he must want his pleasure now.
She thought he would mount her.
She couldn’t tear her gaze from his blunt-nosed cock pointing toward her, so long and thick and intriguing. One thrust, and she would be ruined.
She didn’t care.
She touched his jaw, let his stubble ignite her skin and send magic coursing through her veins. Her skirts spilled over her hips; her legs were bare. She could see her brown intimate curls below crumpled petticoats and the snug front panel of her corset. She parted her legs wide.
I want you.
She couldn’t say it. Didn’t dare say it.
Still, she wanted him to understand.
But he didn’t mount her. Instead he paced over to a simple box standing on the desk, at the edge of the light.
A proper young lady didn’t look at a man’s naked bottom, she thought wildly. But she couldn’t help but look. He possessed the most perfect taut derriere. The muscles of his flanks hollowed deeply as he walked, lithe and graceful.
Grinning in the way that made her throat ache and her quim pulse, he flipped open the lid. “Playthings.”
Toys? Why would a gentleman have toys on his desk?
She had time to run. Time to flee to preserve…what?
Before she could work up the courage to ask, he returned. He splayed his hands beneath her lower back and lifted her. With the corset, she didn’t bend, and he gave her a smile of sympathy. “This will be worth it, love.”
Something pressed at the puckered entrance of her bottom. The most wonderful, exhilarating sensation shot through her. It was so wickedly sensitive there—just as her authors said.
He held a small glass vial before her eyes, poured a stream of gold liquid to his fingers. It poured slowly, like honey, and dripped off his fingers.
Her heart hammered.
She was masked. He most definitely did not know who she was. He would not touch his slicked fingers to her bottom if he knew she was the Earl of Trent’s sister by marriage.
Ooh!
Slippery, his fingers traced around her entrance, leaving her skin oiled. His finger dipped inside, and her bottom opened for him.
Never had she imagined it could feel so good.
He held another thing before her eyes. One of the “playthings.” A small, slim rod with a rounded end. With circular strokes, he teased her entrance with it. With her legs splayed wide, she could only arch with the shock.
“Do you enjoy anal play?”
He was studying her bottom, displayed to him, and she felt a flush of embarrassment. Yet he only appeared…intrigued…as though he enjoyed the sight of her entrance, her plump cheeks squashed by the chaise beneath.
The slender rod slid in, and she knew at once that she did enjoy such play. Heart in her throat, Maryanne nodded.
“Relax, love. Let it slip inside,” Dash murmured.
Dash nuzzled pretty Verity’s slender neck. She lay on the chaise with her legs up and spread wide, the picture of carnal welcome. Brandy-laced blood raced down to his rigid cock, and he had to hold the edge of the seat to stay upright.
Verity. Pretty Verity, promising the truth in her pleasure.
Her hair tumbled around her, fallen from her pins, a shimmering honey brown in the golden light. With her skirts around her waist, her shapely, trim legs were revealed. Lovely slim hips and a nipped-in waist beneath her corset.
Behind the mask, her wide eyes were the color of coffee. He’d tasted champagne in her kiss. As with him, liquor fired her blood. With the white silk strip of a mask, he could see only brown eyes, the plump curve of her mouth, the point to her chin.
She wore a blasted awkward gown for a courtesan, yet it was enticing to try to slide his hand inside the bodice to tease her nipple. She squirmed in frustration, and he pressed his lips to the crests of her breasts beneath the satin.
Lovely.
Wrapping his fist around his shaft, he forced his prick down. Even just his touch on his shaft almost hit the trigger and sent him firing. God, he was hard—he needed to fuck, to fuck wide-eyed, lovely Verity—and escape his truth.
He should leave. He’d come to prove his innocence only to be struck in the gut with his guilt. He should—
Don’t think.
She smelled like heaven, ripe and creamy from her orgasm.
A kiss. He slanted his mouth over her parted lips as he used the swollen head of his cock to part her wet nether lips.
Hot. Wet.
Beautiful oblivion.
Bracing his arm on the chaise, Dash guided his cock to her snug, velvety quim and sank inside.
H
e was going to make her come until she begged for mercy. Until she pleaded with him to stop because she couldn’t bear more pleasure. He would hear her scream for him.
“Oh, dear god!”
Dash chuckled at Verity’s shocked cry as his thick cock nosed its way into her quim. Her fingernails clamped into his bare shoulders. Her teeth sank into her lower lip. Like hot cream, she flowed around his rigid shaft. His chest brushed her tightly corseted breasts, his mouth grazed her forehead as he began the slow, easy rock of his hips.
Damn, but she was tight. A mere inch inside her slick, tight cunny and his brain wanted to shatter into a thousand pieces. His famed control was fleeing, and he fought to hang on to it.
A girl this tight was new.
He wouldn’t hurt her. But he needed to intensify the game.
Dash caught her hands in his and lifted her arms over her head. Panic flashed in her dark, massive eyes. Her legs were splayed on either side of the chaise. With his weight between her creamy thighs, his length positioned over her, she was trapped.
He read at once her fear at loss of control, but sex was best when accompanied by powerful emotion—by fear, by vulnerability, reputedly by love…
He pumped deep, rewarded by her gasps and moans with every thrust. Her cries were so sweet, so bewitching, so delicate. Verity’s fetching cries had a truth to them that spoke deeply to his heart.
She was so tentative beneath him.
Afraid of him? Because he was drunk? Because he’d shattered every tumbler in the room into the fireplace? She must have seen the shards of glass.
Her right leg hooked around his calves, her left around his hips.
“Yes,” he groaned, and he thrust deep as her hot, bubbling core accepted his cock until he nudged the entrance to her womb.
She cried out then, as women did when he gave that shocking thrust, when he filled them completely. He wasn’t buried to the hilt—it didn’t matter. Her cunny was snug around the head of his cock, pleasuring that spot on the shaft that was so sensitive.
He had to be gentle. God, that was the pleasure of it—fighting to be gentle while wanting so much to ram, to pound, to pump himself senseless.
He could slip off her mask, see her, but it would destroy trust. Her brown eyes sparkled at him; she gazed at him as if he could give her heaven with a sweep of his arm.
Yes, angel of truth, let us fuck our way to heaven.
Dash let his groans of mounting pleasure join with hers. Growing louder. An intimate chorus that sang in his head.
The slim rod in her derriere made her cunny incredibly tight—it was a trick many courtesans used to enhance their lover’s pleasure. Each bounce would pleasure her anus as well as her lush quim.
His brain began to fog. His eyes shut, and he drank in their luxurious scent, the scent now coating his cock and ballocks and her soft, sticky inner thighs. He was leaking into her, his balls ratcheting tighter, tighter, his body aching to burst.
Let her go.
Instinct told him to free her hands, and he braced his weight on one of his. He slid his other hand beneath her bottom, grasping a cheek. It tugged her anus, and she moaned in surprise.
Deep. Go deep. Climb inside.
His groin collided with hers, his jet-black nether hair crushing against her silky, chocolate pelt. Lovely. A shift of his hips, better aim, and he heard the cries that rewarded his success. His cock was stroking her clit with each plunge.
Yes.
He needed her climax. He was going to get it.
Her change was so subtle. Her hands skimmed down his back. Never once had he been caressed that way—so slowly, as though she was memorizing him by touch.
“What is your truth, love?” Why was he asking? Dash wondered. He didn’t want to give his truth. But he wanted hers. “Who are you really, Verity?”
Maryanne heard his lordship’s question but ignored it. She ran her hands down the broad expanse of his hard back, and her fingers dipped just inside the valley of his bottom.
She was touching Lord Swansborough’s arse!
His cock shaft, veined and thick and wet, slid along her clit, and her toes curled. Her hips arched. She wanted to find the rhythm. The perfect rhythm.
She’d read so many times about pain. Pain the first time. There’d been a twinge, almost nothing. But now it was the sweetest agony to be filled by such a big cock. Yet that little tweak of exhilarating pain with each thrust only excited her. It didn’t hurt, it excited her. She rose up to him, meeting him halfway, her legs flung over his.
Ruined. She was ruined.
How perfect ruination was.
She closed her eyes. He was a stranger, this man pounding into her. A man she’d dreamed of, yet his every thrust pounded one truth into her head.
You know nothing about him. He doesn’t even…even fuck like you guessed he would.
She’d dreamed that he would be sweet. He would call her magnificent, beautiful—she had no idea how a man really behaved.
But this was so very, very good.
Swansborough was raw male hunger and pure graceful skill. A gentleman at the core, carefully balancing his weight, carefully gliding his slick cock over her teased, throbbing clit. But a beast at the heart of him, a man who hammered his pelvis into hers, who drove his cock as deep as he could, and sent shock waves of delight to her brain.
She loved each bang. Loved the blossoming soreness of each collision. Loved the deep, full feeling of being ripped apart by wild Lord Swansborough.
His big hand slid in between their bodies, his long index finger lying across her clit. Her bottom was invaded with each bounce of her hips, her clit stroked, her quim filled.
Sweat dripped onto her face from his brow. A drop hit her lips, and she tasted cool salt. His eyes looked ravaged, and harsh lines ringed his mouth as he gasped and panted.
As he fucked her.
God, she loved it so—
The patter of her heart ceased—like the stillness of nature just before a natural disaster. Her body paused, poised, and the orgasm roared over her like a crushing wave. She clung to shoulder and arse and screamed her pleasure at his ear, and closed her eyes shut, and knew how lovely it was to be ruined and a woman.
Lovely.
She was sobbing with it. Moaning. Gasping.
He surged forward, one last impossibly deep thrust, a bang that sent so much hot ecstasy through her she tore at his skin. His hips bucked, she felt his buttocks flex with it as he shot into her. He growled low in his throat. His body jerked with his orgasm.
It was exquisite to hold a climaxing man.
Marvelous. Perfect.
She couldn’t move. She could only hold him and hear his soft groan and the pounding of her heart.
His head lowered toward hers, his damp black hair hanging around his face. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he was panting like she was.
He’d come inside her.
She’d done what foolish ruined girls did—she’d risked everything for a fleeting moment of intimacy. And he’d come in her, and she couldn’t take it back, and even now, she might be just about to become pregnant.
The horror numbed her.
She stayed absolutely still as he slid out of her. As his hot, thick semen rushed out, too. Her inner thighs, her curls, her buttocks were sticky with it.
What if he saw blood? Her blood on him? Or, dear heaven, would he offer marriage?
No, he was drunk. He wouldn’t notice, and if he did, he wouldn’t care.
He was a reprobate. A rake. He must have torn maidenheads before.
He’d asked who she was. She’d said nothing, she’d only moaned, and he hadn’t asked again.
He slid the toy from her sensitive derriere, wrapped it in a handkerchief. “Did you not enjoy yourself, sweet?”
Even with her mask, had her every thought shown in her eyes? In the cast of her mouth? “I—I…” Now was the time to race away. To push down her skirts and run for survival. Another moment longer, he might…guess. Not who she was but what she was. And once he’d guessed that, she feared her mask would have to come off.
He kissed her cheek. Gave a smile, but it only curved his lips and left his eyes unfocused and strangely blank.
“I have to go, love.”
“You can’t!” Her outcry shocked even her. It was the best solution to let him go. But she was afraid to be alone here. She wanted—
What? For him to escort her to safety? For him to take her home—foolishness, that. She could make him call her a hackney—payment for the tupping on a chaise.
She struggled to sit up, and she stared at his back. He’d gone over to his clothes, had pulled on his shirt and was now straightening it.
Without turning, he said, “Sorry, love. But I have to pursue this hunt. I can’t stay.”
Her brain was a mess of exhaustion and pleasure, champagne and raw fear. “I’m not safe here.”
That made him turn. “Are you a professional or not?”
“New. I’m new at this. It wasn’t…wasn’t what I thought. I came only to find Georgiana.”
Shrugging on his waistcoat, Swansborough paced back over to her. With his raven hair, midnight eyes, bronzed skin, and black whorls of hair, he was so dark, like a moving shadow. Firelight danced across his face, painting the sharp planes of cheekbone, jaw, and nose with gold. “What do you want with her?”
He could intimidate even while foxed. She guessed it was second nature to a viscount. He expected her obedience.
She took a steadying breath. “How could you know she’s gone after an earl? That can’t be true.”
As he sat down on the chaise beside her, he didn’t answer. He wore only a shirt. Glancing down, Maryanne could see his now slumbering cock—so adorable she wanted to touch it. Why shouldn’t she touch it? Desperately, fearing what she might start again, she looked up. Into his face. Best to look there, not at his cock, which she felt, foolishly, belonged to her.
His lashes lowered, brushing his cheeks—heavens, she saw the hint of freckles on his cheeks, across his nose, and her heart lurched in her chest.
Slowly he tilted his head, met her gaze. His eyes were so black they shocked her. She couldn’t tell where the pupils stopped and irises began.
“How could you know?” she repeated. Could he give her a sensible answer? He looked unsteady, as though the drink was affecting him more now.
He cupped her cheek, nuzzled her neck. His hair brushed her earlobe.
She fought the urge to squeal in shock and laughter—it tickled! “Tell me.”
He lifted. He had no scruples about touching her. He pinched her right nipple through her gown. Casually ran his thumb in a circle around the nipple poking hopefully at her dress.
“It’s the
on dit
, love.”
She drew back. She could barely find her voice with his hand making erotic magic on her breast. “What do you mean?”
He splayed his legs. Reach down and scratched his ballocks.
Good heavens—one fuck and they’d reached the intimate level of her sister’s marriage. She knew Marcus did such things thoughtlessly in front of Venetia, her sister laughed about it with other married women. Maryanne hadn’t expected the sight of Swansborough scratching an itch to make her heart somersault in her chest.
“I was looking for Craven,” he said, as he rearranged his ballocks to his satisfaction. “The story is that Georgiana pursued him to the country, and he left her there while he returned here.”
“Georgiana would never have stayed if Lord Craven returned.” Her hair. She really should try to fix her hair. “She sent me a letter. She said she was in great danger.”
“Indeed. And you came here to rescue her?”
Her hair was a snarl. Exhausted now, she felt on the edge of tears, but refused to give in to them. “You needn’t sound so amused. Of course I came to help.”
“In a place like this, a novice comes to rescue Mother Superior?”
A novice nun? Had he guessed she was a virgin?
She waited, as taut as a wound-up clock, but he said nothing more. He flopped back, the devil, onto the chaise.
To think she’d feared his first instinct on deflowering her would be to offer marriage. What a romantic fool she’d been. Of course, all who knew her expressed that sentiment behind their hands.
Maryanne always has her nose in a book—and not the improving sort. Really, Maryanne has no practical sense at all. Maryanne must learn that romance is all very well in the pages of a book, but…
The champagne was making her thoughts a jumble. Could sex do that, too? She felt so boneless still, and her quim ached and throbbed in the most wonderful way. “She must be here. She sent the letter. I’ll have to go back out there. I have to find her.”
Doubt crept in at the edges of her conviction. Several times Georgiana had offered the chance of naughty adventure. A man to make love to her or to do everything but! She’d refused—more out of the fear of giving great leverage to Georgiana. If Georgiana knew she’d made love, she would be a slave to her partner, willing to do anything to protect her secret.
Though, really, one hint from Georgiana that a Miss Maryanne Hamilton edited erotic books and her entire life would be devastated. It was only the certainty that Georgiana needed her that kept her feeling safe. She’d grown up learning not to trust. Not anyone.
Rodesson, her father, had made so many promises and had never kept a one. They were never suitable for him, never convenient, and she’d learned, of course, that one rushed to keep promises for someone one was determined to keep.
“I had to assume her letter was the truth. I couldn’t turn my back on Georgiana’s plea.”
Swansborough got up from the chaise and patted her head. Even gave her a scratch behind her ear like a favored pup. “You aren’t going back out there, sweetheart. I promise you that Georgiana was not here when I arrived.”
She heard the hesitation and pounced. “But she could have been here. They find clues, don’t they? And go from one scandalous place to another. What if Georgiana went to the next place?”
A thought struck. What if Georgiana had planned such a thing all along? Instead of revealing where she really was, she went to the next place in the hunt and directed Maryanne here. All Maryanne needed to know was where to go next.