She rolled her hips, searching for the hard pressure of his arousal. Then she felt his hand move past her knee, past the garter that held her stocking, and on to the bare flesh of her upper thigh.
His fingers. Skin. Yes.
“Selina,” he scraped out. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Please.”
He growled appreciatively, his hips jerking against her, his hand sliding farther toward the part of her that was slippery and aching. She felt her leg fall open, inviting his touch at her core.
His fingers were featherlight at first, and she took a little sobbing breath. He stroked her gently, so gently, tracing her folds, circling the bundle of nerves at the apex. Her body felt like a bowstring about to snap as he circled, retreated, circled again.
“Peter,” she said desperately. “Peter, I need—”
“Hush,” he murmured into her ear. His tongue traced its curves. His fingers teased her sex. “I’ve got you, sweet. Easy.”
She writhed, pressing herself into his hand. “I don’t wanteasy, Peter. I wantharder.”
He huffed a laugh that turned into a moan. “God,” he said, and slipped a finger inside her. “You make me—you are—Christ, you’re so wet. I want to be inside you.”
His finger teased her, stretched her, and then he added another finger, curling deep inside her, his palm firm against her mound.
She gasped at the intensity of the pleasure and rolled her hips frantically against his hand.
“Yes,” he said. “God, Selina, you’re lovely. Perfect. Don’t stop. I have to—”
Then his mouth found her nipple again and suckled, fast and firm, and she felt her body coil tighter and tighter, pleasure chasing the throbbing tension as she rode Peter’s hand.
When she climaxed, an earthquake of pleasure rolled through her, shock after shock of sweet, impossible, life-altering bliss.
And while she shook apart, he whispered little words of praise and tenderness, and when her body stopped shaking, she felt the trembling go on for a long time somewhere deep in her chest.
She came back to herself in fragments. She felt Peter’s lips at her temple, his breath rushing through her hair. She felt his arm locked around her waist, keeping her in his lap.
She felt the rock-hard insistence of his erection pressed into her hip, defying all vegetal comparison.
Her heartbeat was slowing now, but she could still feel Peter’s, thudding sharp and strong against her back. His muscles were tight, even as his murmured approbations were soft and easy.
Oh dear Lord. She had… And he hadn’t…
What was she supposed todo? How was she meant to approach it? She had seen references to licking. Stroking. Larking, whatever that meant. But how did shedoit?
And now that he knew about Belvoir’s, would he expect her to be good at it?
Belvoir’s. Thank God, she had Belvoir’s, and at least seven key volumes from the Venus catalog secreted in her bedroom, plus another several dozen in her office at the library.
She needed books. She needed detailed descriptions, and full-page illustrations, and possibly a series of diagrams, if such a thing existed.
She leapt to her feet, nearly stumbling as her bodice slithered down to her hips and then caught there, too tight to slip past her bottom half.
Which, she wondered wildly, would be more humiliating: Her dress falling to the floor? Or the blasted thing ripping as she tried to peel it from where it currently clung to her hips?
She yanked her bodice back up, heedless of potential tearing, and started fastening its hooks.
“Well,” she said. “That was…” Oh for God’s sake, how did she finish that sentence?Nicesounded like an insult to his abilities, but anything more fervent might remind him of the fact that he hadn’t… he hadn’t…
She didn’t even know the word that ladies used for it.Wasthere a word that ladies used for it?
She gave up on her sentence. Peter was staring at her as though she’d grown a second head somewhere between his lap and the middle of the darkened room she had backed into. She struggled into her cloak, which had puddled on the floor at some point earlier in their conversation. “I should go,” she said. “Back to Rowland House.”
