He swallowed his complaints. Florence knew her own mind, knew what was best for her. It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit, but he didn’t wish to anger her again. He folded his hands behind his head. “Not proper for me to be wearing so much clothing,” he said absently as she started on the buttons of his undergarment.
“I see. You could help, you know.” She flicked her eyes to his vest.
His fingers flew along the black buttons. He tossed the silk vest to the floor just as she reached into his undergarment to grasp his penis. The touch of her skin to his, hers cool on his burning hot flesh, caused him to groan. He rocked his hips, pressing upward. Begging.
She laughed quietly as she curled over him. He held his breath, muscles locked, as the tip of her tongue touched the smooth head of his cock, licking him. Gasping, he screwed his eyes shut. He’d never last if he watched her.
“It would help,” she said, the sultry air from her mouth gusting over his skin, “if you told me what you like. I’ve never . . . I mean, there’s not much opportunity to practice these skills with the other dancers.”
Had she done this before? God, the idea that his cock would be the first one inside her mouth made him crazed, like a lunatic on Blackwell’s Island. It was barbaric, this sense of possession, but the animal side of his brain relished it. Craved it.
Requesting this was wrong, but he would not treat her like a fragile princess. If she wanted to proceed with this, he only knew how to be himself.
“Suck me,” he growled. “Take me in your mouth as deep as you can. Use your tongue, your hand, your lips . . . use them all on my cock.”
She apparently liked the words because her gaze went hooded, dark with desire. Was it the power of controlling his pleasure . . . or the way he spoke to her? Those inept uptown lovers had likely used silly euphemisms like “love stick” or “mizzen mast.” Loads of “please” and “thank you,” along with fumbling in the dark.
Clay had been raised in the streets. Knew every curse word invented, and some others he’d come up with on his own. If a woman didn’t care for dirty talk, she was better off bedding a different man.
Florence wrapped her hand around his shaft and angled it toward her mouth. “Yeah, that’s it,” he encouraged. He thought she might ease into it, tease him a little. Work up the nerve to really get going.
He should have known better.
She opened wide and took him deep on the first pass. Wet, tight heat enveloped him and he threw his head back. “Oh, fuck.” His legs locked to keep from thrusting into that slick heaven, pleasure coursing through him like sparks. “Christ Jesus, woman.”
His reaction must have satisfied her because her eyes were dancing when he regained the ability to focus. She set to her task, sucking and licking him from root to tip, her painted lips working his flesh to perfection. The sight of her bobbing over him, the ridiculous orange wig so out of place, her cheeks hollowing as she moved, was damn erotic. He didn’t hurry her, not even when he felt his orgasm gathering steam.
Except, he didn’t wish to finish this way.
He levered up and reached for her. In one smooth motion he lifted her on top of him so that her knees straddled his hips. “There’s plenty of time later for that. Right now I want inside you.”
Moving her skirts out of the way, he found the part in her drawers. She was drenched and hot, ready for him. He inserted a finger into her channel to stretch her. “Show me your breasts,” he rasped.
She unfastened the tight, ruffled bodice. When it fell away, she was left in a corset and her shift. He pushed in another finger and she gasped, her hands coming up to cover the mounds of her breasts.
“Keep going, Florence.”
She popped open the corset to reveal more skin to his hungry gaze. I need her now. He licked the thumb on his free hand and worked it under her skirts until he found her clitoris. The bud was swollen and ripe, and he stroked and circled until she rocked on his fingers, seeking.
“Lift up.” He shoved fabric out of the way, positioned her over his cock. Tossing the corset to the ground, she gathered her skirts in her fists and began lowering herself down. He couldn’t look away from the sight of her body swallowing the head of his shaft. Gripping him. Squeezing him.
It was torture, the pace at which she took him. He gritted his teeth and dug deep for patience. Her sheath was every bit as snug as he remembered, those slippery walls clamping down on him like a vise. When their hips met, they both moaned, their chests heaving. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this vulnerable and powerful with a woman at the same time.
“Oh, God,” she wheezed. “It’s too much.”
He froze. “Am I hurting you?”
She shook her head. “No, I think I’m on the verge of . . .”
Coming? Sweet Mother of God, he was close, as well. Grasping her hips, he showed her how to move to rub that spot high inside her. Her lids fell and she braced her hands on his stomach, rolling her pelvis over his. The friction made him dizzy, her walls surrounding him, massaging him. When she started moving faster, he rubbed her clitoris again, desperate for her to climax first.
Her rhythm soon faltered, so he began thrusting upward, keeping up the pressure, until she quivered around his shaft. Nails dug into his stomach and her body trembled. He watched her face through it all, this flawless creature who humbled him with her adventurous spirit and bold nature. He needed to make her come a thousand more times just to see if her expression changed for each orgasm.
The pressure on his cock overwhelmed him. He was coming then, too, the world exploding in colors all around him, a sky of warmth and light that bathed him in contentment. A respite from his bleak and gloomy thoughts.
She dropped onto his chest and burrowed closer. He was still inside her, his body clinging to the tiny aftershocks of serenity. Real life would intrude soon enough. For now, he had her in his bed and that was all that mattered.
“Happy birthday, my dearest granddaughter.”
Florence hugged her grandmother. This evening the entire Greene family was gathering for Easter dinner. They had spent the morning at church then joined nearly all of society in a promenade along Fifth Avenue. It was an excuse for ladies to show off their new hats and Easter dresses, the men their top hats and tails. The tradition was Mama’s favorite, one her three daughters were not allowed to miss. “Granny, my birthday is in two days.”
“True, but it’s never too early to shower my favorite grandchild with love.”
“You shouldn’t say that. Mamie and Justine may overhear you.”
Granny pulled back and patted Florence’s cheek. “I would hate to hurt their feelings, though I don’t think either of them would be surprised should they learn of my preference.”
Probably not. Linking her arm with her grandmother’s, Florence started down the corridor. The rest of the family had already settled in the grand salon used for more formal occasions. Florence liked to enjoy a quiet moment with just her grandmother.
The past week had been a flurry of lessons with Clay, sleeping with Clay, lying to her parents and thinking about Clay. In other words, quite busy. “When you first met Grandfather, did you believe your marriage would turn out happily?”
“Heavens, no. The betrothal was arranged by my father and I cried for two days. I fancied myself in love with someone else.”