She cried out then, as women did when he gave that shocking thrust, when he filled them completely. He wasn’t buried to the hilt—it didn’t matter. Her cunny was snug around the head of his cock, pleasuring that spot on the shaft that was so sensitive.
He had to be gentle. God, that was the pleasure of it—fighting to be gentle while wanting so much to ram, to pound, to pump himself senseless.
He could slip off her mask, see her, but it would destroy trust. Her brown eyes sparkled at him; she gazed at him as if he could give her heaven with a sweep of his arm.
Yes, angel of truth, let us fuck our way to heaven.
Dash let his groans of mounting pleasure join with hers. Growing louder. An intimate chorus that sang in his head.
The slim rod in her derriere made her cunny incredibly tight—it was a trick many courtesans used to enhance their lover’s pleasure. Each bounce would pleasure her anus as well as her lush quim.
His brain began to fog. His eyes shut, and he drank in their luxurious scent, the scent now coating his cock and ballocks and her soft, sticky inner thighs. He was leaking into her, his balls ratcheting tighter, tighter, his body aching to burst.
Let her go.
Instinct told him to free her hands, and he braced his weight on one of his. He slid his other hand beneath her bottom, grasping a cheek. It tugged her anus, and she moaned in surprise.
Deep. Go deep. Climb inside.
His groin collided with hers, his jet-black nether hair crushing against her silky, chocolate pelt. Lovely. A shift of his hips, better aim, and he heard the cries that rewarded his success. His cock was stroking her clit with each plunge.
Yes.
He needed her climax. He was going to get it.
Her change was so subtle. Her hands skimmed down his back. Never once had he been caressed that way—so slowly, as though she was memorizing him by touch.
“What is your truth, love?” Why was he asking? Dash wondered. He didn’t want to give his truth. But he wanted hers. “Who are you really, Verity?”
Maryanne heard his lordship’s question but ignored it. She ran her hands down the broad expanse of his hard back, and her fingers dipped just inside the valley of his bottom.
She was touching Lord Swansborough’s arse!
His cock shaft, veined and thick and wet, slid along her clit, and her toes curled. Her hips arched. She wanted to find the rhythm. The perfect rhythm.
She’d read so many times about pain. Pain the first time. There’d been a twinge, almost nothing. But now it was the sweetest agony to be filled by such a big cock. Yet that little tweak of exhilarating pain with each thrust only excited her. It didn’t hurt, it excited her. She rose up to him, meeting him halfway, her legs flung over his.
Ruined. She was ruined.
How perfect ruination was.
She closed her eyes. He was a stranger, this man pounding into her. A man she’d dreamed of, yet his every thrust pounded one truth into her head. You know nothing about him. He doesn’t even…even fuck like you guessed he would.
She’d dreamed that he would be sweet. He would call her magnificent, beautiful—she had no idea how a man really behaved.
But this was so very, very good.
Swansborough was raw male hunger and pure graceful skill. A gentleman at the core, carefully balancing his weight, carefully gliding his slick cock over her teased, throbbing clit. But a beast at the heart of him, a man who hammered his pelvis into hers, who drove his cock as deep as he could, and sent shock waves of delight to her brain.
She loved each bang. Loved the blossoming soreness of each collision. Loved the deep, full feeling of being ripped apart by wild Lord Swansborough.
His big hand slid in between their bodies, his long index finger lying across her clit. Her bottom was invaded with each bounce of her hips, her clit stroked, her quim filled.
Sweat dripped onto her face from his brow. A drop hit her lips, and she tasted cool salt. His eyes looked ravaged, and harsh lines ringed his mouth as he gasped and panted.
As he fucked her.
God, she loved it so—
The patter of her heart ceased—like the stillness of nature just before a natural disaster. Her body paused, poised, and the orgasm roared over her like a crushing wave. She clung to shoulder and arse and screamed her pleasure at his ear, and closed her eyes shut, and knew how lovely it was to be ruined and a woman.
Lovely.
She was sobbing with it. Moaning. Gasping.
He surged forward, one last impossibly deep thrust, a bang that sent so much hot ecstasy through her she tore at his skin. His hips bucked, she felt his buttocks flex with it as he shot into her. He growled low in his throat. His body jerked with his orgasm.
It was exquisite to hold a climaxing man.
Marvelous. Perfect.
She couldn’t move. She could only hold him and hear his soft groan and the pounding of her heart.
His head lowered toward hers, his damp black hair hanging around his face. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he was panting like she was.
He’d come inside her.
She’d done what foolish ruined girls did—she’d risked everything for a fleeting moment of intimacy. And he’d come in her, and she couldn’t take it back, and even now, she might be just about to become pregnant.
The horror numbed her.
She stayed absolutely still as he slid out of her. As his hot, thick semen rushed out, too. Her inner thighs, her curls, her buttocks were sticky with it.
What if he saw blood? Her blood on him? Or, dear heaven, would he offer marriage?
No, he was drunk. He wouldn’t notice, and if he did, he wouldn’t care.
He was a reprobate. A rake. He must have torn maidenheads before.
He’d asked who she was. She’d said nothing, she’d only moaned, and he hadn’t asked again.
He slid the toy from her sensitive derriere, wrapped it in a handkerchief. “Did you not enjoy yourself, sweet?”
Even with her mask, had her every thought shown in her eyes? In the cast of her mouth? “I—I…” Now was the time to race away. To push down her skirts and run for survival. Another moment longer, he might…guess. Not who she was but what she was. And once he’d guessed that, she feared her mask would have to come off.
He kissed her cheek. Gave a smile, but it only curved his lips and left his eyes unfocused and strangely blank.
“I have to go, love.”
“You can’t!” Her outcry shocked even her. It was the best solution to let him go. But she was afraid to be alone here. She wanted—
What? For him to escort her to safety? For him to take her home—foolishness, that. She could make him call her a hackney—payment for the tupping on a chaise.
She struggled to sit up, and she stared at his back. He’d gone over to his clothes, had pulled on his shirt and was now straightening it.
Without turning, he said, “Sorry, love. But I have to pursue this hunt. I can’t stay.”
Her brain was a mess of exhaustion and pleasure, champagne and raw fear. “I’m not safe here.”
That made him turn. “Are you a professional or not?”
“New. I’m new at this. It wasn’t…wasn’t what I thought. I came only to find