“You haven’t got breasts.”
His deep, throaty, wicked laugh washed over her, more intoxicating than champagne. Surely Lucifer laughed like this—before tempting a woman to surrender her soul.
“Indeed I don’t. Disappointed? Do you enjoy suckling another woman’s breasts? Tell me—I enjoy inviting a crowd into my bed at times. Have you experience there?”
She felt as if she were being interviewed for a position—she supposed she was. He thought she wanted to be his mistress. Suddenly the realization of what she’d come for stopped her cold.
“I can’t. I must—I must go.”
“To find Georgiana? She isn’t here, love. She’s left London.”
“How do you know?”
“I know everything, sweeting. The lovely Georgiana is pursuing an earl. She’s left you alone. Now, tell me, have you enjoyed sexual sport with another woman?”
Maryanne reeled back on her slippers. She had to grab the back of the chair beside her.
Georgiana had left London! But what of her note? That desperate note? Had Georgiana written a plea for rescue yet left town with another man?
It would be like Georgiana. To forget she’d begged for help, to forget she’d put a friend at risk when a man offered rescue. She’d strangle Georgiana. When she found her.
Her heart twisted in her chest. Her friend had forgotten all about her. She was so very forgettable.
“Other women?” Swansborough prompted.
Startled, she looked up. His lips were parted, and his breath came fast. He was waiting on her answer as if he needed it to live. He was exquisite, beautiful, yearned for by unmarried ladies who dreamed of a charming husband and a stallion in their beds. And he wanted her answer.
“N—no.”
She saw his slight stumble, a reminder of how much liquor he must have drunk.
“Any objections, though?” he went on. “I can think of several women who would love to nibble your breasts or suck the honey out of your quim.”
She saw his cock jolt upward at his own words. The head glistened as though moist—in all the books she edited, the cocks were always dewy, or dripping, or slick. Lord Swansborough’s certainly was. She stared at it, unable to answer his question—she’d read Sapphic scenes, had been intrigued. What would it be like to suckle a woman’s breasts to please her? Or lick another woman’s wet cunny?
But she wanted him. Only him.
“Touch me.”
Two simple words, spoken in a voice hoarse with desire. In a heartbeat, his teasing nature had dropped away.
“I need you,” he said simply. “Make me forget. Touch me.”
Tentatively she let her fingers brush—and touched the mythical velvet-over-steel she had read about so many times. Nothing could describe the marvelous sensation of his intimate warmth against her skin. And it was truly satin soft yet rigid, and it jumped beneath her touch with a mind of its own.
Her heart leaped into a frantic rhythm.
She clamped her hand around the shaft as he caught her in another kiss, a long, slow kiss that melted her like wax to a flame. She was gripping his poor cock to keep herself from pooling to the floor.
Brandy taste tingled on her tongue as he broke the breathless kiss. Laughing, he took a staggering step. Terrified she’d hurt him, with her hand wrapped around his remarkably pulsing member, she moved back, too.
His hands pulled up her skirts, and she gasped at the sight of satin wrinkled by his hands as her hem rose higher and higher.
His hot breath danced against her ear. “I promise, Verity, when I want to use fucking to make me forget, I am very, very good.”
What did he want so much to forget? His hand cupped her inner thigh, and she struggled to think. The roughness of his palm, the strength of his fingers, the reverence of his touch—all conspired to send her wits whirling, shattering.
A man’s hand was on her thigh.
Lord Swansborough’s hand was on her thigh.
Sliding up, up to the juncture between. His palm cupped her hot, wet nether lips; his fingertips delved inside her cunny.
His hand shifted; the heel pressed that magical place all the courtesans wrote of. The clitoris. Obviously Lord Swansborough knew exactly what he was—
Oh, lord.
Hazily, through shattering pleasure, she saw his smile, saw the roguish curve of his lips. She clung to his arm, to the chair beside her. Oh, it was so…so much. Beyond words…so far beyond her skill with words—
She tried to back away as he flexed his hand and slowly, torturously increased the pressure and slipped his fingers between her damp nether lips. Her juices were lush, thick, bubbling from inside her.
In her fantasies, she had gazed into his magnetic black eyes and shared the deepest intimacy. Never had she dreamed it could be real. That she would see how long his sweeping black lashes truly were. That she would see his eyes sparkle for her.
He bent to the swell of her breasts, the lightly freckled curves, and ran his tongue over them. Heat washed over her as though a thousand wicks had caught flame at once. She was gazing down at Lord Swansborough’s silky black hair while he licked her breasts!
Thick and gleaming, blue-black beneath the soft candlelight, his hair tempted her to touch. She coasted her palms over its softness, barely touching, gasping at the tickle across her hands. Even at that light, feathery caress, he began to suckle. His beautiful mouth left a trail of warm wetness over her tingling skin.
Emboldened, she slid her fingers into his hair. Savored the silky feel.
It was dizzying to touch him so.
She wanted to touch more.
Beneath her lashes, she saw his naked body—his wide shoulders, the lean line of his abdomen, and his magnificent, amazing cock bobbing as he kissed her. As his fingers stroked and teased between her thighs.
She tried to cling desperately to sense. But all she wanted was more stroking, harder stroking, rougher, faster—
His mouth slanted over hers as the pleasure became almost unbearable. She knew this…had read it so many times…had brought herself to this wonderful, exquisite point. She’d learned through naughty touching how she liked her release, but it was so much more intriguing to have his masculine fingers rasping between her curls to rub her clit.
His touch made her tremble, made the perspiration spill between her breasts, made it almost impossible to breathe. But she needed…just a little different rhythm. He was in control, but she rubbed hungrily against his hand. Oh, yes, she loved his touch, but she was hurtling toward climax, and his caresses were not…not exactly the rhythm, the speed to take her to ecstasy.
She knew she loved his touch, but she knew her body.
“Yes, my lady of truth, take yourself there.” He urged it against her ear, and his lips lowered to play sensual magic against her neck.
She grasped his hand. Not quite so direct a touch…a little higher…more of a tug—
Perfect!
What must he think? Was he offended? He let her guide his hand; he even smiled—lips kicking up on the right side, his cheek dimpling.
What did she care if he was angry? She wanted…needed…
She drove toward her climax like a madwoman.
She cried out as it took her. Barely heard his raw, masculine laugh as she rocked with it.
“Come against my hand, my love.”
She