Except for the ones set by the other men who would notice her eventually, want her most certainly. They’d be of her own class and could offer her more than an exciting month or two warming each other’s sheets. They’d be able to offer her a lifetime, something he could never give her.
Damn. The thought should have cooled his ardor. It did not. It raged harder than before, screaming through every muscle that she was his and no other man would ever touch her.
“Straddle me, love.”
She pulled away, breathless and blinking. “Straddle …? I’ve never …”
“Here.” He tipped her off his lap, then with hands around her hips, urged her back onto him. “Ruck your skirts up.”
She did, revealing first cream stockings, fastened with little purple ribbons that tied him up tight. The most sensual sight of his life, pretending at innocence, hinting at sin, promising delight. And above them, even better, a lush heaven of creamier skin, pink and full and touchable.
“Just like that.” His voice was hoarse and husky with need. “Now, a knee here.” He patted the settee on one side of his hip. “And the other here.” He patted the space on the other.
She needed no more prompting than that, and she lowered herself right on top of his aching cock.
He hissed.
She’d never straddled a man, it seemed, but she knew enough about men’s bodies to know the sound had not been one of pain. She replaced her arms around his neck and nestled her face into his shoulder.
“Can we do away with the cravat, do you think?” She spoke into his body, and her words sank heavy as stones into his chest, but lifted him up, too, lighter than air.
“Would you like that?” He’d like it, would like to have not just her words on his body but her breath on his skin.
A nod.
He unwound the length of linen, tossed it on the floor.
Her fingers replaced it immediately, and then her lips. “Even this is strong. Vital.”
“You need fewer clothes, darling.”
“Yes.”
Her skirts strained the space between them. She’d somehow managed to keep her legs covered while straddling him, and it was too, too bad.
“Ruck your skirts up higher.”
Her hands obeyed immediately, her body wriggling against his to loosen the skirt. Finally freed, it settled about her waist, a silky bath for them both.
He wasted no time wrapping his curious hands around her thighs, digging in, kneading, stroking. He wanted to curve those hands around to her front, so open to him now, but he waited. He wanted her writhing atop him before he touched her there.
She arched into his every touch so their movements seemed orchestrated, a perfectly choreographed act for an empty audience. He would share this—her—with no one. As soon as he laid hands on her, he knew that for a certainty.
He massaged the supple flesh of her breast. Her curves proved generous, overflowing his large hands, and he nudged her bodice down until he found what he wanted and made her gasp as he took it into his mouth.
“Such pretty, dusky nipples,” he groaned. “I want to lay you on a bed—my bed, Freddy darling—and study them for hours.”
She wrapped her body into his, hiding herself from his hungry gaze, becoming a curved seashell in his arms, closed and secretive. “I was much … pinker when I was younger. Having children changes a woman.”
“Makes her even more beautiful.”
She uncurved her shell self and offered a shy, fluttering smile. “Thank you for saying so. Not all men agree with you, I dare say.”
Did experience color that hesitant tint in her words? Hell. Someone along the way—her husband?—had lied to her about the temptation of her woman’s body. He’d have to set the matter straight.
“I see you do not believe me. I’ll have to convince you of the truth, then.”
Her smile grew tendrils of courage. “I certainly hope you’ll try.”