Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his manhood. He was inches from her. Her lips so close, her nose even closer. So close she could smell him, the male musk of him, a faint aroma of salty skin, soap and the heady scent of leather.
He had grown even bigger. Still nowhere in the vicinity of the illustrations she had studied for so many years, but he was not without intimidation. He would still have to go inside her and that looked as though it might hurt.
Very well. Not have to. She wanted him inside her. That cock buried deep. She wanted this. She was salivating for it.
She had created this entire scenario and not even fled when the chance presented itself.
The prospect of them joined together, of him moving inside her, made her belly squeeze. The core of her tightened and throbbed between her legs. She longed for it, for that part of him to fill her. Even if a small inner voice told her this was madness and she should flee.
Even the thought that there would be pain at the start did not deter her. The prospect was too thrilling, and she was no young maid anymore. Women her age were married with children—veterans in the matters of the flesh. This moment was long overdue. She did not want or need marriage or children, but she wanted this. She needed this.
Her gaze hungrily traveled over his swollen member. That. She needed that beautiful instrument.
She would finally have something to fill the ache, and that had her trembling with anticipation. With that thought fueling her, she reached up and wrapped her fingers around him.
He gasped softly. She sent him a quick look, gratified at the expression of rapture on his face. That look was enough to motivate her. Not that she needed further incentive.
Her gaze shot back down to her hand wrapped around his member. Nothing could have prepared her for the sensation of his skin, so soft, like silk. But there the softness ended. He was hard and pulsing under that satiny texture.
She stroked him in long pulls that soon had the breaths shuddering out from him and his hips thrusting up into her hand. She had never felt so powerful. So in control.
Her own breath came out faster. The ache between her legs intensified until she felt the familiar build of her own climax. That was shocking. She did not know it could happen so quickly. He had not even touched her yet. She was doing all the touching—and to him, not herself as was usually the case. She was ready to explode from this alone.
She felt like she was someone else in this dress, in this room, with this man. Even the very air she inhaled felt different, tasted different. Not like oxygen at all but something bred of desire and instinct and the thrill of danger and the forbidden.
She closed the last bit of distance separating them and pushed forward and licked him. Once. Twice. Three deep savoring licks to the plump head of him.
The blood simmered in her veins. She had played this countless times in her mind. She had read about it in her lurid books, observed it in the illustrations, but now she was doing it and it felt surreal. This seeming lack of reality emboldened her.
She savored the head of him between her lips, loving him with her tongue like he was the sweetest lolly, before she sucked him in deeper, her cheeks hollowing out as her mouth slid down the full and considerable length of him.
Recalling everything she had ever read, she worshiped him with her mouth until he seized her by the arms and hauled her to her feet.
“What are you . . .” Her voice faded away. His eyes felt like hot pokers on her, sizzling her skin, robbing her of speech.
Breathing heavily, she held his stare. His gaze fixed on her lips, his fingers following, landing there, thumbing over her swollen flesh, sliding back and forth as though needing to feel her cock-bruised mouth for himself, needing to verify the evidence of her desire.
He moved then, his hands hooking beneath her arms. He lifted her off her feet and in a few short strides carried her to that giant bed of his where he unceremoniously dropped her on it in a flurry of skirts she detested and wished were gone.
He had his own demon garments to shed. He kicked at the trousers trapping his feet, giving a curse as he went down.
She released a small yelp and sat up, peering down over the bed where he had disappeared from sight.
Suddenly he popped up, fully naked and free of his garments.
She giggled and a grin broke across his once serious features. That grin was breathtaking. Her chest ached just looking at it.
Her hands flew to her laughing lips as he hopped down onto the bed beside her, his dark hair tossing carelessly with his actions. The sound of her own laughter astonished her. She had not heard it in a while and the sound was rusty, like a knife blade that had long since gone dull. She had not realized that. Had not realized how very grim and cheerless her days had become. All work. All rote and no spontaneity. No levity.
Not only did mirth feel strange in this moment of passion with this stranger, but it felt wrong. She had always imagined passion to be a very serious matter. Intense. Consuming. Splendid, yes, but not a humorous undertaking.
As quickly as it arrived, however, the lighthearted moment passed.
His smile faded. Things suddenly felt very serious as he crawled toward her on the bed. Intense. Consuming. Splendid. It was all of that and more as he came over her, reminding her of a great predatory cat.
Except she was not prey. Indeed not.
In this, she was the initiator and the creator. It had been her fantasy for years and if it was to be only this once, this single time . . . then she would make certain the experience went according to her every wish.
Chapter Four
Mercy did not flinch or shy away as he came over her. Not in this, a situation of her own making. She would not permit maidenly virtue or convention or her button-down upbringing to get in the way of having this for herself. And this was for herself—even if she needed to do it, even if it was necessary.
“You’re a bold lass. Very sure of yourself, are you not?”
She looked up at him. “I know what I like.”
Strangely that was the truth of it. She had years ahead all to herself, an old maid alone in her house, for surely one day Grace would leave, and Bede could never be expected to stay. Her future loomed . . . alone. Alone in her bed. Alone with her wicked books, perfecting the art of her own climaxes. She did, indeed, know how to achieve her own pleasure, but now she had this man with whom to do it. For one night at least.
She licked her lips, tracing the upper one slowly before her tongue darted over the bottom. “Don’t you?” she asked, staring at him beneath half-mast eyelids. “Know what you like?”
He considered the question for a moment before answering, “I thought I did, but now you’re in my bed.”
Ah, yes. She was not to his tastes. He had said that. It had rightly stung.
She pulled a pout and dragged a hand across her amply displayed bosom, noting the way his eyes followed the path of her hand and she felt instantly gratified. Presumably, he was not immune to the sight of her.
“You wouldn’t normally want me in your bed?” She felt giddy and breathless as she coyly posed the question.
He responded by placing two hands on either side of her head on the bed and lowering himself until his nose grazed her cheek. He inhaled her again. “Like I said, I have my preferences.”
“I recall. And I am not to your preference.” She arched an eyebrow, that scaldingly embarrassing moment fresh in her mind.