The Outcast Earl (30 page)

Gliding through the boudoir, she glanced at the daybed, wondering if she should even bother to mention it. A smile tugged at her lips, and she stepped to the door.

Glancing down at the latch, she frowned. Then Abigail realised what he had done.

Meriden had had the lock removed. A sigh of exasperation escaped her, but she took a deep breath and thought. Losing her temper did not fit in with her plans tonight, she reminded herself.

Once again, the conquering warlord was trampling over his new holdings with all the delicacy and tact of a distrustful idiot. He could have simply taken away the key, but instead—

No, she cautioned herself, that wasn’t precisely how he would see it. He’d see it as removing the temptation to break the rules, not as a bald statement of his ownership and possession.

In any event, she had no intention of letting him escape his fate tonight. Licking her lips, Abigail closed her eyes and drew in a deep, calming breath. She might have to remind him—before he touched her—but he’d keep his word.

She believed he would. She
trusted
he would, just as much as he trusted she’d walk through this door instead of running off to hide in some quiet corner.

Raising her hand, she pushed the panel open and stepped through.

Meriden was already there, glass in hand by the fireplace. He was dressed in breeches and shirtsleeves again, and he looked up at the sound of the door sliding over the plush rug, his glass half raised.

His mouth actually opened, then closed again, and he put the glass down with a splashing clunk on the table beside his armchair.

Abigail stopped halfway across the room from him and smiled.

He cleared his throat, and gestured with his hand. “It turns out,” he finally rasped, “I didn’t think you’d actually have the courage to come in here naked. Or like that. I was prepared to enjoy ripping, cutting and otherwise decimating your collection of nightgowns one night at a time, if necessary.”

Abigail tipped her head to the side and considered him. She had, she realised, more power over him than she’d understood. He was very good at demanding and taking what he wanted from her, but her actions tonight would try him in ways their tempers hadn’t.

It was a thrilling realisation. She smiled.

“Abby,” he groaned, taking a step forward.

Abigail reached out a hand, spreading her palm out to stop him. “You said earlier,” she murmured, “that I could touch you as I wished. I didn’t have the opportunity then. But I want it now.”

He stopped and stared at her, actually shuddering. “Just what did you have in mind?” he finally asked, their eyes still locked.

“Take off your shirt,” she whispered, “and recline on the chaise.”

“This is not a good idea,” he muttered, nevertheless fisting his hands in the fabric and drawing it up over his head. “You have no idea what—”

“I do, you know,” Abigail returned softly. “I know it’s about time you felt at least a portion of the absolutely divine pleasure you’ve gifted me with the past few nights.”

Meriden stared at her, but dropped the shirt to the floor. “I have,” he finally managed after a long moment. “I find watching you break apart into a thousand tiny pieces immensely pleasurable.”

“Then tonight,” she murmured, “let me have that same experience—of watching you experience something pleasurable. Now lie down.”

She pressed forwards, urging Meriden backwards, his calves bumping into the chaise. Abruptly he sat down and she took another step forwards, then another when he reclined obediently back against the cushions. He was golden in the firelight, and his skin gleamed over muscles that were spectacularly firm where she was soft.

Blinking, she looked over his chest and arms appreciatively, her gaze settling on his tense abdomen and the dusting of hair that narrowed from his chest downward into the form-fitting waist of his breeches.

He looked more uncomfortable than she had expected. “Are you in pain?” she asked curiously, gesturing at his breeches.

“Yes,” he gritted.

Abigail couldn’t stop the wide smile on her mouth, and Meriden caught his breath. “Well, then you can loosen those breeches.”

“No!” he exclaimed. “Just get it over with.”

She raised an eyebrow and stepped forwards again, stepping between his ankles at the end of the chaise. Meriden had been nude in the bed with her before, but he’d been covered by the blanket and she’d sneaked away without waking him. As a result, Abigail had never seen a man in the flesh before, but she already knew the specimen before her was a definite improvement over the statues she’d seen in museums and the illustrations she’d studied earlier in Meriden’s tomes. “I don’t think so.” She laughed huskily. “You said I could touch
to my heart’s content
, and I have every intention of doing so.”

Lifting a knee, she came up onto the end of the chaise, kneeling between his knees. She felt the edges of the silky peignoir catch on his knees. Trapped behind her, the fabric pulled from her front, exposing her breasts.

He reached out instinctively, but she caught his hands in hers, scooting forward a few inches when he lifted one knee to dig his heel into the velvet upholstery. “No touching—yet,” she whispered. “You’ll have your turn.” She guided his hands down and loosed them on his thighs. Watching from beneath lowered lashes, she drew a shaky breath when he let them drift, coming to rest on her knees.

“You are so damnably beautiful,” he breathed, and Abigail looked up to meet his eyes. “This is going to kill me.”

“Mmmm, no, I don’t think so.” Abigail shook her head, putting her hands out to cup his jaw, one on each side of his face. “You have a strong heart, you’ll survive,” she assured him, rubbing both palms there and feeling his stubble. It was a fascinating texture, but she lifted her fingers and brushed over the lobes of his ears.

Abigail was surprised when Meriden audibly gasped at the contact, his head jerking, and she tucked the information away for another time. She ran her fingers down his neck. His skin was firm and warm, and his pulse was throbbing violently. The pumping was faster than she had expected, and more violent, so she let her hands wander down and trace his collarbone. She explored the bones with the pads of her fingers, then spread her hands apart and gripped his shoulders for a moment.

Meriden closed his eyes and dropped his head back, almost as if he knew what she would do. And perhaps he did—it was probably obvious that her palms would descend from his shoulders until they covered his nipples. He was pressing his fingers into her thighs, just above her knees, but Abigail wanted to know if his body responded as wildly as hers did when he played with her breasts and nipples.

Abigail rubbed her palms in circles over the dark brown nubs and was rewarded by a tightening of the tissue. He groaned, so she let her hands slip around his sides and press into the upholstery behind him.

Bending forward, she pressed her lips to one of the tight nibs then lapped at it with her tongue.

Meriden’s hand shot to her head, but to her surprise he didn’t push her away. He slid his hand against her scalp, tangling it in her curls. When she drifted over his chest to the other nipple, he almost dragged her along. She had to chuckle and go slowly, despite the tugs on her scalp. “Not too fast,” she said quietly, wiping her tongue against the satiny warmth of his sternum. “I want to know how your skin tastes, too.”

“God, Abby,” he sighed, when her mouth found his other nipple. She took it gently between her teeth and tugged.

The noise that came from his throat was almost a snarl, and Abigail was sure his chest quaked. Bending forward, she had to slide back on the upholstery, but she was able to meander lower, tracing the lower edge of the musculature around his abdomen, then a long scar that decorated the right side of his torso. Abruptly, she turned her head so that she could caress the edges of his navel.

He tugged her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “This isn’t just
touching
, it’s torture,” he ground out.

Abigail shrugged a shoulder inside the peignoir and shuffled towards his feet again, so that she could explore his abdominal muscles and stomach. With the flat of the nail on her index finger, she traced a path down the hairy road to his breeches, then frowned up at him.

He still had his hands in her hair, still putting a determined distance between them. With a sigh, she sat on her knees and dislodged his hands.

“Thank God,” he breathed, sliding his hands down towards her breasts.

She grasped his wrists just before his palms covered her nipples. Shaking her head, she returned them to his own thighs, then let the silk of the peignoir slide completely from her shoulders, so that it slithered to the floor behind her.

“I want to see you, too,” she whispered. “I need to see you, Charles.”

He shook his head, shocked again.

“Unfasten your breeches.” Abigail looked at his groin and licked her lips. It was an innocent gesture, but she realised the implication as soon as he groaned as though he were in acute pain. “Please, Charles,” she finished, putting her own vulnerability and uncertainty into the words.

Chapter Fourteen

Charles couldn’t understand why he was unfastening the buttons at his groin. He had to be mad. His size would terrify her. If it didn’t, her hands would humiliate him inside a minute.

But the hint of disappointment in her voice had been intolerable.

Abby looked so perfect there, kneeling between his legs. Her body shone, and her eyes glittered, and she’d touched him with tentative fascination. He couldn’t think of any other woman who’d ever done the same, despite his assiduous attention to their gratification. To have Abby, the delight of his nights and days, profess a desire to learn about his body was more than staggering.

He didn’t think he’d ever look at her again without remembering her mouth nuzzling his navel. Despite the bare few seconds she’d worshipped there, it had been the most erotic moment of his life. So far.

His fingers were shaking as he unbuttoned the leather. He had to jerk at the fastenings, then draw away the fabric to free both his cock and the heavy sac beneath it. He gripped his shaft tightly, preventing it from leaping out at her curious eyes and hands, but she seemed to know and reached out to bat his hands away.

“My turn,” she purred, sliding forward so that she could more easily hold it.

Abby slid her hands—both of them—around his rigid length and Charles’ eyes rolled back in his head. He grasped the cushioned seat beneath him and fought to stay on the chaise, when what he most wanted to do was pick up the sultry angel in front of him and sink her down onto him so fast that she orgasmed from the mere penetration.

Instead, he had to fight to stay in place while she rubbed and squeezed and, God help him,
looked
at his big cock. He’d slay her with it, too, just as soon as she was satisfied he’d kept his word.

“What’s it called?” she asked softly, rubbing the sensitive place beneath the purpling head. “I’ve heard it called ‘manhood’, ‘man’s tool’ and ‘that thing’, but I know you have a better word for it.”

“Cock,” he ground out. “It’s my cock. There are other names, too, though.” He wanted to say more, but it was all he could get out from between his stiff, parched lips.

“And down here?” She swept her hands under him, fingering the darker, swollen orbs.

“Balls,” he grunted, arching his back against the chaise.

She ran her finger up the vein on the underside of his cock, and Charles couldn’t help it. He thrust helplessly, knowing his seed was leaking out of the slit at the head, unable to do more than wait for whatever question or curiosity came next.

To his everlasting surprise—
again
, how would he survive this night?—she smiled brilliantly and with a quick, graceful move bent down and licked the cream dribbling from him.

“Abby!” he gasped, his hands again clasping her scalp and hair. She made a noise deep in her throat and rubbed her cheek against the swollen skin.

She said not a word, but shifted, pressing her breasts down into the velvet and lifting her bottom up, tucking her knees beneath her and cradling his now painful erection.

He watched, helpless to stop it despite his grip on her head, as she lowered her lips and pressed them softly to the mushroom-shaped head. He was a big man, he knew. His girth would stretch her mouth if she tried to take him between her teeth. He’d be in heaven if she just kissed him—

But his Abby didn’t hesitate. She pressed her lips to the head teasingly, then went further. She opened her mouth and he slid inside the hot cavern, closing his eyes to prevent the room from spinning.

She experimented, as if testing both her tongue’s power and its ability to get out of the way. Charles was beyond thought and reason now, not even bothering to try to resist the urge to thrust in farther. Against every instinct he possessed, he tugged her forward, forcing her to stay in place as he lifted his hips until his cock hit the back of her throat.

Her choking gasp made him blink, and he withdrew a few inches. The moment shook him—not enough to pull out completely, but enough to acquire a modicum of sanity. “One more time,” he begged shamelessly, his eyes on her lips, still tight around him, “Breathe through your nose. It’ll only be for a moment, and then I’ll pull out and ruin the breeches.”

Abby responded by sliding her head forwards two inches. He watched her lips enclose the penile skin in all apparent eagerness and his penis swelled further to painful, explosive size again.

Charles tightened his fingers on her scalp. He was going to pull her hair out, and her only response was to open wider and welcome him. It was enough to drive him deeper, faster, until he realised she was doing exactly what he’d said.

She was breathing through her nose, and he was fucking against the back of her throat.

His balls tightened, and tingles ran up his spine in a recognisable sign that he couldn’t hold his ejaculation any longer. “Let go,” he grunted, tugging on her head now, but she shook her head and tightened her lips.