Seizing his hand, she placed it on her breast. He just stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was being so brazen. She couldn’t believe it herself. But how else was she to take his mind off of Mr. Juncker except by seducing him? She wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, but she would work it out as she went along.
She kissed him again, this time lingering over his mouth. And he stayed frozen for about half a second. Then he shrugged off his waistcoat and slung his arm about her waist to pull her hard against him for a kiss as darkly needy as it was delicious.
“Damn it, Vanessa,” he whispered against her lips. “You are . . . making this bloody hard.”
She certainly hoped so. Because she had no intention of being wed to the saint everyone took him for. What she wanted was the sinner, the part he only showed her. Sinful Sheridan was at least capable of love. “I think”—she whispered back—“you are the one making this hard.” And she put her hand on his trousers, right where a bulge was forming most pleasingly.
With a groan, he grabbed her hand and held it more firmly against that evidence of his arousal. Then as he moved it up and down, he turned to kissing his way down her neck to the low scoop of her bodice. “Turn around, my temptress,” he said in a rough voice that sent shivers along her senses.
She did as he bade, her pulse quickening in anticipation.
Swiftly, he undid the fastenings of her gown, then untied her corset and shoved it all off, leaving her in her shift and stockings. As he circled back around in front of her, she untied her shift. Before she could remove it, he pulled the opening apart and loosened the tie so he could bring the front down far enough to bare her breasts. “I never tire of these,” he growled.
Taking her by surprise, he lifted her onto the table, then pulled his chair around so he could sit down and feast upon her breasts. There was something so . . . carnal about having him sucking and licking and teasing her nipples while sitting casually at the table. “I like having you . . . feed on me,” she said with a little laugh as she buried her fingers in his silky curls.
“I like having you for dinner,” he murmured against one breast. “You smell good. You taste good. You make me so . . . very . . . hungry. . . .”
The husky way he said it shot a thrill through her. “You are . . . a flatterer.”
Perhaps the way to a man’s heart truly was through his stomach. The thought made her giggle, and he paused to stare up at her with a raised eyebrow. Not wanting to explain, she said, “When will you take these off?” and tugged at his trousers’ waistband.
At once he sat back and pulled off his boots. “Touch yourself,” he said.
“Wh-What? Where?”
“Your breasts. Touch them. Don’t you ever touch yourself?”
“Only to bathe. Why?”
He groaned as he stood to unfasten his trousers. “Pretend you’re bathing. Better yet, pretend I’m bathing you.”
“Ohhh.” Why did the very idea make her all trembly?
Feeling a bit self-conscious, she began to rub her breasts. It felt so-o-o naughty, especially since he still wore half his clothes.
But not for long. As she fondled her bosom shamelessly through the opening of her shift, he continued undressing, his gaze eating her up. “You’re a feast for a man’s eyes, my wanton wife.”
She surveyed his now-bared chest with its impressive muscles, then his undertrousers, or whatever they were called, which were bulging impressively. “As are you, my wanton husband.”
Only when he was completely naked did he resume his seat in front of her. Spreading her legs, he said in a harsh rasp, “And I do believe I’m ready for dessert.” He pulled her shift up just enough so he could thrust his head beneath it.
Then he kissed her right on her privates, a spot she’d never imagined anyone wanting to kiss. As she caught his head to her, he began to stroke her down there with his tongue. At first it tickled, but the more he used his tongue in long, hot caresses, the more it stirred her already heightened senses. And it was . . . marvelous. He made her quiver on the inside, he made her quiver on the outside, he made her quiver everywhere a woman could.
Oh. Heavens. How amazing! The man was clearly a master of the bedchamber.
As she squirmed beneath the rasps of his tongue, his thumbs stroked small circles on the inside of her upper thighs, which had suddenly become quite sensitive.
“This . . . seems very . . . wicked,” she choked out.
He paused long enough to ask, with a ghost of a smile, “Do you mind being wicked?”
“With you? No.”
“Good,” he ground out, then returned to teasing her down there with his lips and tongue and teeth until she thought she might explode out of her skin.
“Sheridan . . . I want . . . I want . . .”
“What do you want, my wicked wife?”
“You . . . inside me. . . .”
He tormented her a bit more with his clever tongue, then asked, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Oh, yes . . . please . . .”
“Very well,” he said, and wiped his mouth on her shift.
Then he pulled her off the table and onto him, so she was straddling his thighs, with her knees resting on either side of his narrow hips on the seat of the wide chair.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“If you want me inside you, then mount me.”
She blinked, at first not understanding. Then it dawned on her. He wanted to do what they’d done last night, only in reverse. How very . . . intriguing.
And this way, she would have all that male glory in front of her while she “mounted” him.
“Well?” he asked, with one eyebrow quirked up and his lips smirking.
“That sounds like something I might enjoy.”
“Might? I will make sure you do.” He grabbed the hem of her shift, which was already bunched about her hips. “But first, let’s get rid of this.” And with a quick motion of his hands, he dispensed with her shift. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
“You like seeing me naked, don’t you?” she said, preening a bit.
“You’re still wearing stockings.”
“Shall I take those off, too?”
“God, no.” He smoothed his hands up her thighs to her garters. “I like you in stockings.”
“You like seeing me almost naked,” she teased. “In pearls. Or stockings.”
“Oh, yes.” He gazed at her breasts. “I certainly do.”
“And I like seeing you . . . beneath me.”
“Witch,” he said, and smiled. “Now it’s time you see me, feel me . . . inside of you.”
Sheridan had never imagined a picture as erotic as Vanessa perched naked atop him in stockings, which somehow made the image even more erotic. His duchess proved a quick study, too. All he had to do was give her a few instructions and guide her down his rigid cock to have her encasing it in pure, delectable heat.
God save him, he could die happy with her like this, on top of him, around him. Filling his senses with her delicious taste, musky scent, and her sweet, sweet doe-eyed wonder at having learned something new about bedsport.
“Now you have to . . . move, my wanton goddess,” he choked out. “Up and down. The way I moved in you . . . last night.”