And then he bent and touched his mouth to her.
Josie bucked, unprepared for the exquisite torture. His tongue flicked out, and she bucked again. He tapped his tongue out again and again, and then he drew back. “There it is,” he murmured with admiration. “The bud I’ve been coaxing out.”
He lowered to her again, and this time when he touched his tongue to her flesh, the pleasure was so strong that she did scream.
“Come for me, Miss Hale,” he said against her thighs, his mouth alternately sucking her and his tongue darting out to flick the nub of pleasure. “Come in my mouth.”
He sucked and he flicked, and Josie writhed against him, coiling further, her muscles bunching, her toes going numb, and then she exploded.
Not quickly.
She exploded slowly and completely, her pleasure rising and rising, taking her hips with it, until she was so high she could hear the angels singing.
Except that wasn’t the sound of angels. It was the sound of her own screams of pleasure.
Chapter Nine
Stephen lifted his head, feeling as though he’d just downed a bottle of gin. He was drunk. Drunk on the woman in his arms. Her smell, her taste, the very sound of her voice had intoxicated him. That was the only explanation for the incredibly poor judgment he’d just exercised.
Unless one considered that Stephen Doubleday was the earl of poor judgment.
Stephen felt like slamming his head against the floor. Why did he keep doing things like this? Why did he keep mucking everything up? He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get involved with Josephine Hale. He’d promised himself he’d not seduce another innocent.
And what had he done now? Gone and debauched the most unsuitable woman in the entire country of England. At least unsuitable for him. He should be searching for a bride, a mother to bear him sons to continue the Westman title, not dallying with his family’s enemy.
And she, well, she should be searching for a husband of her own. Except—
He glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deep, and he could see the rapid-fire pulse at the base of her neck. She’d been magnificent. Really, truly, stunning. He wanted her in his bed and imagining her with another man was not a pleasant thought at the moment. She should be his. But for their goddamned fool grandfathers, she might be.
“We should both be ashamed,” he said, when she finally opened her dark green eyes and blinked at him. At his statement, she blinked again.
Stephen ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he should begin again.
“What I mean is that we are becoming distracted from the task at hand. We should be spending our time searching for the treasure, not involved in this—” He tried to think of a word that would not offend her. “This debauchery.”
Her eyes narrowed, and her eyebrows slammed together.
Stephen coiled for escape. Wrong word. Again.
She threw down her skirts, temporarily blinding him, and when he found his way out, she had her bodice put to rights, and her arms crossed over those small, perfect breasts. She was fuming.
“Now don’t—”
“Don’t be huffy?” she said, cutting him off. “In the space of half a minute, after the most wonderful experience of my life to date, you mention both shame and debauchery? And you don’t want me to be huffy?”
Stephen raised a brow. “Miss Hale, you said you wanted a lover. Were you not prepared to engage in a bit of shame and debauchery? It would hardly be worth it if you did not.”
She grunted and stood. “Well, you would know, wouldn’t you? And you should be the one who’s ashamed. All this time telling me you didn’t want me as a lover, and then, when you have me feeling ugly and vulnerable, you seduce me!”
Stephen opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it again. It was a perfect seduction plan, only he hadn’t actually thought of it. But he took one look at her now and knew she was in no frame of mind to be rational.
He had better stick with the basics. “We are not lovers, Miss Hale.”
She stopped pacing and cocked her head at him. “If we’re not lovers, then what was that?” She gestured to her skirts and then to the floor.
“That,” he said, rising from the floor she’d just accused, “was a mistake. I acted on an impulse. One impulsive act does not make us lovers.”
“One impulsive—!” She stared at him, then backed away. Two steps. Three. “Oh, I see now.” She nodded, still backing away. “I see how it is. That was nothing to you, was it?” She shook her head, and said, almost to herself, “Silly me. The most wonderful experience of my life, and he thinks it’s a mistake.”
