Emilia had been to museums and seen the statues. Arabella was very fond of discussing, behind her fan, how well certain gentlemen’s buckskin breeches fitted. And Lady Watney had had a private cabinet in her library, kept locked from the maids but which she’d opened to Emilia, filled with naughty poems and scandalous drawings. She was confident she knew what to expect.
Except... all those things were pale imitations of the reality that was Nicholas Dashwood.
She watched avidly as he tugged off his boots and shed his waistcoat. She inhaled a shivering breath as he stepped out of his trousers. But when he pulled his long shirt over his head and flung it aside, she almost stopped breathing.
In his usual evening wear, he looked lean and elegant—a dangerous gentleman, but a gentleman all the same. Without his clothes, it was clear he was no gentleman.
His shoulders looked broader; his arms looked thicker. Dark hair was scattered across his chest, but not so thickly she didn’t see the image of a mermaid, marked into his skin. His stomach was flat with muscle, and his hips were lean. And at his groin, his male member rose rigid and strong, far larger than any ever seen on a statue.
“Oh,” she said faintly.
He was magnificent.
He lowered himself over her. “Changing your mind?” he whispered, catching her nipple between his teeth.
She moaned as she clutched his head to her.“No.”
“Good,” he muttered, his tongue working enchantment on her skin. “I don’t know what I’d do...” His arms closed around her, and she gasped again at the feel of his body covering hers, skin to skin.
He seemed content to kiss her all over, smiling when his whiskers tickled her and made her laugh, growling under his breath when his attentions made her arch and whimper beneath him. Emilia burned to touch him and explore him as well, but he kept distracting her until she finally gave it up and just clung to him, begging for more.
Nick reared back to sit on his knees. He spread her thighs wide, running his hands up and down her legs until she shuddered. “Let me make you scream,” he said, watching her with burning eyes.
“No,” she gasped, grabbing for his wrist. “The girls would hear—!”
“They won’t.” He caught her hand and leaned over her to pin both her arms to the bed. “The door is bolted,” he said softly. “Don’t think of the girls, Emilia.”
She gulped, and nodded.
He laid one hand on her belly, lightly, brushing his fingertips in tantalizing little circles that made her muscles twitch. His thumb dipped lower, into the curls between her spread legs, and Emilia let out a high-pitched gasp. One corner of his mouth hitched wickedly; he did it again, and again, until she was trembling, writhing with desperate want, biting her lips to keep from screaming.
Then he took himself in his other hand and pressed the broad, smooth head of his cock against her. He dragged it up and down the folds of her intimate flesh, watching as if mesmerized. “I want to feel you around me when you come,” he growled. His voice was rough, guttural, and sent a flush of heat through her.
Slowly he pushed himself an inch deep. Emilia gasped but he distracted her with his fingers, sliding easily over her flesh, now wet and swollen.
With agonizing deliberation, he worked her into a fever, only to pause and let her catch her breath before beginning again. He was deep inside her now, his thighs like iron against her own quivering legs. When she arched and twisted, almost sobbing in search of release, he hooked his hands under her knees and pulled her tight against him again, and she felt him swell inside her, full and thick.
“Bloody Christ,” he said, his voice shaking. Slowly, his forearms flexing as if it cost him all his strength, he spread her legs wide, flexing his spine and moving within her.
Emilia made a deranged sound, half pleasure, half agony. She reached for him, and he caught her hand, sucked her thumb hard into his mouth, then laid that hand on her breast.
“Touch yourself,” his voice rumbled. “Imagine it’s my hands on you. Show me how you like to be touched.”
She tipped back her head and raked her fingernails down her throat before cupping both hands around her breasts. Every inch of skin felt scored and raw, her nerves jolting with every touch.Imagine my hands...She had already done that, pictured his big hands on her. She squeezed, pinching the nipples between two fingers.
This time he was the one to make an unearthly noise. And he continued to move, a slow, hard thrust of his hips against hers, in time with the maddening swirl of his thumb over that tender spot where all her nerves seemed to end.
Emilia pried open her eyes. She felt drunk, off-balance and short of breath. He watched her like a dark god, his eyes glowing like coals. When her eyes met his, he hiked her knee higher, looping his arm underneath so he could hold her hip as he moved, relentless, tearing her apart and making her feel like a new woman.
One who knew what pleasure was.
She arched under the climax with a soundless cry. Her knees drew back toward her chest and she flung out her arms, grasping for an anchor. Nick leaned over her, eyes closed, his hands planted beside her head. His shoulders rippled. As the waves of pleasure swamping Emilia began to ebb, he pulled back and thrust home, again and again. She quivered as her body responded, spiraling, plummeting, and then she felt him come undone. His hands fisted in the bedsheets, and he bared his teeth in a grimace as he thrust hard and deep one last time.
And as they lay still, wrapped around each other and breathing hard, Emilia realized how hopelessly in love with him she was.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
In a dim and distant part of his brain, Nick knew he had to let her go to her own room.
