Every sigh or groan from her bolstered him, guiding his ministrations. The more he experienced of Miranda, the better he understood what she liked, what he could do to make her cry out his name. To hear, feel, and see her response to him was like the headiest of wine or spirits—intoxicating and addictive.
“Roger,” she mewled when his fingers slipped between her legs, finding her already wet.
He went to his knees and urged her to hold her skirts as he braced his hands on her thighs. The scent of her arousal made his mouth water for the taste of her, his curiosity over how she would receive this particular intimacy driving him to press his face to her mons. His tongue traced her slit, encountering the slick inner folds and the nub of her clitoris.
“Roger!”
He smiled against her inner thigh, giving it a kiss and then licking his way back to her center. Having only ever read about and studied pictures of such an act, he was relying solely on instinct. The notion of tasting a woman there was so titillating, so utterly decadent. The reality defied expectation. She smelled womanly and sweet, and tasted like nothing he’d ever had on his tongue—earthy and piquant.
She gripped the nape of his neck, urging him closer and lifting one leg to drape over his shoulder. “There,” she urged when his tongue flicked at her hidden nub. “Yes!”
Roger worked her clitoris with his tongue, dragging it in slow circles, matching the undulations of her bucking hips. Her wetness coated his lips, and the clench of her fingers on the back of his neck kept him anchored to her. Not that he was in any hurry to leave his current location. There was something exhilarating about knowing he was the reason her legs shook, the reason she seemed unable to prevent crying out her pleasure.
He chased her pleasure to its finish, adding two fingers in her sheath just when she began to buck and fall apart. She clenched around him, a keening moan shattering the silent night as she spent all over his tongue. Roger didn’t let up until she had nearly collapsed, coming to his feet just in time to catch her before her knees gave out.
Miranda clung to his lapels as he held her to him, groaning at the shared taste of her when they kissed.
“I wish we were in your b-bed,” he whispered, nuzzling her nose with his. “So I could t-take my time with you … taste you all n-night.”
“No time,” she panted, turning her back to him and hitching up her skirts. “Now, Roger. I want you now.”
His cock pulsed at the revelation of her naked buttocks, her legs adorned by silk stockings and red garters. He fumbled at his fall, heedless to the cold as he took his cock in hand. He was painfully hard, yearning, and already wet at his tip.
Clinging to the foliage of the hedge, Miranda bent to accept him, offering up a temptation too strong to deny. Gripping her hips and tilting them at just the right angle, he guided himself into her with one swift thrust. He wasn’t gentle with her, but then she didn’t ever seem to require that. Her boldness and lack of shame aroused him as much as the taste, feel, and scent of her did.
She swayed back into his every thrust, her low and husky pants ringing out in harmonious duets with his rough groans. Taking hold of one of his hands, she pried it off her hip and guided it between her legs to show him what she needed. Roger stroked her clitoris and picked up his pace, needing to feel her climax around him before he lost himself to his own rapture.
Miranda slumped against the hedges, head lowered and her sounds of pleasure sounding muffled as if from behind pinched lips. Roger slipped free of her just as her orgasm fell from its cresting swell, cock in hand as he spilled on the ground at his feet. Staggering away from her, he took in several breaths of winter air and waited for his limbs to cooperate with the commands of his mind. He righted his clothes, then helped lace Miranda back into her stays and gown.
When she turned to him her lips were split into a wide smile, and her shoulders shook with laughter. Roger couldn’t help but join in, amused by their impulsiveness. When Miranda’s chuckles died away, she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Roger wrapped both arms around her, chafing the bared skin above her evening gloves.
“We should go back inside.”
“Just another moment,” she murmured, tipping her head back to offer her lips. “I’ve wanted to be alone with you all day.”
He pressed a soft, short kiss to her mouth, then stroked her cheek. “I have wanted the same thing.”
Unbuttoning his coat, she wrapped her arms around his waist for warmth. “When we return to London, we’ll have all the time we want together. You can sleep in my bed without having to sneak away at dawn.”
“Hmm,” he murmured against her hair, burying his nose in the silky strands. “That sounds heavenly.”
“I’ll wake you in the most pleasurable way. Then we can have breakfast in bed.”
“I would rather have you for breakfast.”
She gave him a squeeze and sighed. “If you keep saying such things I’ll want you to stay forever.”
Roger went deathly still, the hand at her back freezing mid-stroke. Miranda stiffened as if she, too, realized what she’d just said. She hadn’t meant anything by it. She couldn’t have, and Roger knew that. The after-effects of their coupling had made her sentimental. There was always a sense of closeness and comfort between them after they’d made love. That was all.
They stared at one another in silence for what felt like an eternity. Miranda’s eyes were wide and dark, unreadable.
Clearing his throat, he took her hand. “You’re freezing. We should go inside.”
With a silent nod, she allowed him to lead her from the maze, patting her hair and smoothing her skirts as they went. Typically, the clean air of the outdoors helped clear his thoughts, but just now his mind overflowed with chaos. He felt as if the span of their nearly two-week relationship flitted through his mind all at once—moments and tender words standing out here and there. He’d developed a deep affection for his keeper. But how did she feel about him? Was he alone in thinking that they could have something more—be something more than a courtesan and his client?
Releasing a frustrated sigh, he raked his free hand through his hair. These questions and their answers meant nothing in the end. She had hired him for a specific purpose, and he’d be foolish to forget that it had to end at some point. Even if he could allow himself to consider such aspirations, there was the fact that he had nothing to offer her. Aside from his obvious flaws, there was the state of his family’s finances and estate. He couldn’t try to make something more of their relationship without stepping over the clear boundaries that had been set at the onset of their affair.
“Roger,” she said, just as they stepped onto the terrace. Tightening her grip on his hand, she pulled him up short. “Wait.”
She turned to face him, and the light pouring through the French doors spilled over her.
“Miranda, it’s all right.”
“No, let me say this. What happened back there … what I said …”
“You didn’t mean anything by it.”
“But I might have,” she argued, biting her lip. “That’s what I am trying to tell you. Roger, our time together has been short, but you have proven to be an extraordinary man.”
Roger tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t respond. The cold was starting to get to him—or perhaps it was dread paralyzing him as he wondered what she might say next.