Her Lovestruck Lord: 2 (Wicked Husbands) Page 3
“Mmm, darling.” He lifted his head, stopping the sensual torture. His lips were shiny with her juices. “Do you like when I lick your cunny?”
She flushed, still embarrassed by his words even now that he had actually done the deed. She didn’t know what to say. A helpless slave to her own need, she watched as he pressed a kiss to each of her thighs, then flicked his tongue out to toy with her. She bucked against him, feeling dangerously near to falling apart.
He stopped again, blowing on her swollen, slick flesh. A truly seductive smile curved his lips. “Tell me, my dear. Tell me what you like.”
It occurred to her that he wanted to hear her affirmation. She struggled to force her mind to function. “I like your mouth on me,” she admitted, for while this was indeed a night of firsts, she still couldn’t bring herself to say such wayward words.
He groaned once more, lowering his head to her sex. His tongue worked over her in a maddening dance, flicking her tender button back and forth. She couldn’t hold herself together. The wild feeling between her thighs rippled through her entire body, making her tense beneath him. Suddenly, the pleasure whirled out of control, slamming into her body. She shook, arching into his knowing mouth, crying out with helpless release.
“You came for me twice, darling.” He dropped a kiss on her sex, then rose.
She caught sight of his manhood, hard and long. He had enjoyed the pleasure as much as she had. She reached for him, clutching at his strong, broad shoulders. His skin was hot and smooth, his muscles flexing beneath her touch as he angled himself over her. His dark head bent to suckle her nipple. Wetness trickled down over the folds of her sex. She was nearly mindless with wanting.
Maggie pulled him to her, moaning. She didn’t understand what was happening between them. Nothing in her life could have prepared her. Good heavens. Perhaps she was dying of pleasure. It seemed possible as he took her other nipple into his mouth. His hands ran up over her hips to settle on the nip of her waist. He dragged his lips to her neck, kissing just below her ear. She shivered, loving his every touch, his every action.
“I want to go slowly for your sake, but I’m going mad with wanting you.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth and gave a soft, playful tug. “Christ, what you do to me, woman.”
She was already beyond rational thought, but not so much that she didn’t know what she wanted. What she needed. She caught his face between her hands, pulling him to her until their noses nearly brushed. He was devastatingly handsome, that much she could discern even with the obstruction of his silken mask. “Do not go slowly on my account,” she urged him, breathless.
A beautiful smile curved his sensuous mouth. “I love debauching you, my dear.”
Debauching her? She did her best to ignore the phrase, for perhaps lingering upon it overlong would induce an attack of conscience. Of course, she shouldn’t have any conscience at all in terms of her husband, that insufferable lout who likely didn’t even recall what she looked like. But she had not been raised to be a fast lady with an impenetrable heart. Her parents, for all that they were alarmingly wealthy, had always enjoyed a love match. She’d foolishly expected the same respect and love in her own marriage. She had been terribly wrong.
“Forget I said that bit,” he muttered, apparently sensing the wayward turn of her thoughts. “I love making love with you.” He lowered his mouth to hers for a devouring kiss.
She opened to him, her tongue flitting against his. He tasted sweet and musky, a blend of himself and her both. She was unbelievably aroused at the reminder of him pleasuring her so intimately. His hands went between them, skimming down over her rounded belly to her cunny, to use his ribald word for that part of her body. She found she liked the wickedness of it. He worked her nub, and she tipped her hips up and into him, loving his every touch on her starved flesh. She wanted more.
“I’ve never wanted to take anyone the way I want you,” he growled, his breath a warm puff of air fanning over her lips.
“Take me,” she murmured against his mouth. “Tonight, I’m yours.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, briefly lowering his forehead to hers. “I’m going to lose my head if I’m not inside you soon.”
She wanted him inside her. Mindless, she moved against into his finger, hungry for more of him. Deeper. Harder. Oh good heavens, yes. “Please,” she begged. “I want you.”
“It’s going to hurt.” He kissed her lingeringly. “When I enter you, I’m given to understand there will be pain.”
She didn’t fail to notice his phrasing. “Am I your first virgin?”
“Yes.” His tone was low, velvety. “We are one another’s firsts, it would seem, in different ways.”
She rather liked the notion, she found. It seemed fitting somehow. “I have never been faint-hearted,” she said, referring to the pain. “When I was a girl, I broke my arm falling from an apple tree and I never even cried.” Surely his entrance couldn’t cause as much pain as a broken bone had, she reasoned.
“Brave girl,” he said, kissing her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she said with more bravado than she truly felt. “Make me yours.”
“The things you do to me,” he gritted out, suddenly ceasing his delicious torture. His cock, large and full, pressed into her instead. “Wrap your legs round my waist, darling.”
She did as he asked, allowing him to settle comfortably between her thighs. He moved against her, not yet entering her. Warm pleasure hit her like a wave from the ocean.
“How does that feel?” he asked, sounding strained.
She was touched by his concern but frustrated too. She didn’t want him to be restrained and careful. She wanted him to lose himself inside her. “Wonderful,” she murmured.
He thrust into her, slowly at first, and then with increasing pace and vigor. The pain began, an unpleasant burning. This was what she’d been warned about, but she knew that once her maidenhead was gone, she would never again experience the discomfort she knew now. Biting her lip, she jerked into him, taking him deep inside. A sharp ache cut through her.
And then he began moving. The pain ebbed with each long, slow thrust of his cock. As she adapted to the new sensation of him filling her, she moved along with him, adjusting the angle of her hips for comfort. Soon, pleasure overtook all else. Nothing could have prepared Maggie for the feeling of a man pleasuring her in that elemental way. It was incredible.
He reached between their bodies to stroke her and increased the pace and the pressure of his thrusts, his breathing coming faster. His heart was a rapid thump against her breast. She sank her fingers into his silky hair, inhaling deeply of his potent, male scent. Just when she thought nothing in the world could possibly compare to the sensations sparking through her, she was proven wrong. He anchored her hips and slammed into her, bringing her intense waves of pleasure. She was going to come yet again, she realized, twisting up, wanting more of him, wanting to consume him.
Her sheath tightened on his cock as she found her release, and he abruptly withdrew from her. He pressed himself against her belly and a warm, wet spurt landed on her bare skin. His seed, she realized.
He collapsed at her side, wrapping one possessive arm around her, his breathing heavy and fast. Maggie had never felt more alive. She was awash in fantastic sensation, her entire body throbbing, her sex wet and swollen. She turned to him and pressed one last kiss to his lips, knowing that from this moment forward, she would never again be the same.
A woman, she thought with what little coherence remained in her fogged mind. She was at last a woman.
Chapter Two
He woke to a woman, warm and sweet-smelling, pressed to his side. For a moment, he thought it was Eleanor, until he recalled that Eleanor had told him to go to hell and was likely off riding her balding, red-nosed husband somewhere in London. Damn it.
Simon blinked open his eyes sleepily. Perched on her side, his bedmate slept opposite him, her back a bare slice of tempting skin, lo
ng red curls curved over her creamy shoulder. The bedclothes had pooled around her narrow waist, leaving the small dent at the top of her buttocks visible to him in the early-morning light.
Ah yes, his mystery woman. His cock stirred as recollection filtered through his sleep-fogged mind. He’d taken a virgin he’d met at Lady Needham’s house party. Hell. His morals were rapidly descending to the gutters. But making love to her had been the best thing to happen to him in as long as he could remember, and he didn’t really care.
She sighed in her sleep and settled onto her back, revealing her full, pink-tipped breasts to him once more. Her nipples were hard, begging to be sucked. He groaned, his hand going to his already rigid cock and stroking. Hopefully she wasn’t too sore, for he longed to take her again. He’d done his best to ease her into lovemaking, but he’d never had a virgin before, and there was no telling how her body would react.
He moved his hand beneath the covers, brushing his fingers over her rounded thigh before settling in the damp, hot folds of her cunny. Ah yes. She certainly felt ready. He glanced up to her face as a gauge. Her mask still covered the upper half of her face, but in her slumber it had been knocked askew. Curiosity pricked him then.
Who was she? He had to know, for he was convinced that what they’d shared the evening before was destined to be repeated. Again and again. She was intoxicating. He didn’t think he could ever get enough. With his free hand, he reached up and slid the mask easily from her face. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight. She was…
Good, sweet Christ.
She was his wife.
He stilled, willing his eyes to see something different. It had been some time since he’d last seen her—perhaps even a year—but there it was, the small, pert nose, the lush lips, the riotous red curls. She appeared somehow wilder, more lush and womanly now as she lay nude with him. But the face of his mystery woman, the woman who had altered his world with her innocent passion, was undeniably the woman he had wed.
Margaret. Lady Sandhurst. Christ, all this time he’d thought she was a quiet, bookish bluestocking sitting at home building her library and sending him petulant letters, and instead she’d been about the business of making him a cuckold. He took back his hands as if he were a street urchin caught stealing. What a cunning little wench she’d turned out to be. He never would have guessed.
He rolled away and rose from the bed, his ardor effectively dampened by the revelation that he’d been about to make love to his wife. Again. Bloody hell, he’d never wanted to consummate their union. He’d been forced to marry her as a matter of circumstance, but he’d vowed never to make her his wife in truth. And now he unwittingly had done precisely that. He felt sick at the realization.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself as he searched for his discarded clothes. “Bloody stupid prick.”
He had to leave before she woke and realized who he was. Good God, it would be better to allow her to think she’d tupped some stranger. He should have known it was her. How had he missed the signs? He bent and stuffed his legs into his trousers, frantic to leave. She was an American. Her hair was the same vibrant color, all rebellious curls. Of course there’d been the matter of her mask, and that he’d never once dreamt his mild-mannered wife would deign to appear at a house party renowned for its sexual decadence and freedom. He supposed it was down to the old case of believing what he saw.
He found his shirt and didn’t bother with the buttons. No questions would be asked if anyone passed him in the corridor, as they would more than likely be equally guilty parties. More so, actually. He’d only bedded his wife, after all.
Raking a hand through his hair, he tiptoed from the chamber. He closed the door at his back with a sigh of relief. There was no reason she ever need discover the truth. It was best for the both of them, really. After all, he had no intention of playing the part of husband. Ever. He had come to the house party for distraction, a respite from the torment eating at him ever since Eleanor’s defection. He may have been forced to sell himself to an American fortune, but he still possessed his pride, by God.
Feeling only slightly reassured, he stalked back to his chamber. It would be best, he decided, if he left Lady Needham’s before seeing her again. He didn’t think he could stomach it.
* * * * *
Maggie woke to the sound of a door being snapped tightly closed. It must be her maid, she thought in her sleep-clouded mind. She rolled over, suddenly aware of cool air over her naked breasts. And a distinct yet new soreness between her thighs.
Good heavens.
She sat up in bed as if a gong had just been rung beside her ear. Maggie looked around, relieved to find her chamber empty in the early-morning light. She was alone. It wouldn’t do for her lady’s maid to find her in such a state of…she looked down at herself to find she was utterly nude and promptly yanked the bedclothes all the way up to her neck.
Oh dear. Memories washed over her. She’d met a handsome man and had taken him to bed. He had pleasured her in ways she’d never imagined possible. And then, apparently, he had disappeared. She glanced about the chamber, searching for a sign of her impassioned lover and finding only a rumpled scrap of fabric.
His necktie.
It hadn’t been just a dream after all. He had been real. But he had left her with nary a word. Why? Had she not pleased him? Was her untried state too much for him? Or was this simply standard practice for the wicked? Perhaps the fast set all shared life-changing evenings of desire and then never saw one another again. She’d been correct after all, she thought glumly. She was not made of the stuff required to run in the Marlborough House set. While the previous evening had been the best she’d experienced in quite some time, she hadn’t been prepared for the cold shock of a morning spent alone once more. She thought she’d been seeking a man in her bed, but it would seem she wanted more…companionship, a man in her life. She was terribly tired of men who disappeared.
Who was he?
Unable to sleep, she rose from the bed in search of her nightgown. She didn’t want her lady’s maid to find her in such a state. With a sigh, she threw a linen shift over her head, straightening it before wrapping herself up in a dressing gown. Her bare feet crossed the carpet to the mirror at the vanity on the far end of the chamber. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls about her head. She appeared pale. Different. She was a woman in truth now, after all. If only her new state didn’t feel so dratted empty.
* * * * *
Maggie found herself seated beside Lady Needham at breakfast. One of the lovely, albeit unusual, aspects of her party was that all guests were to remain incognito for the entire weekend. The sole exception was the hostess herself, who seemingly couldn’t be bothered to maintain her reputation anyway.
Lady Needham, as it turned out, was actually a lovely lady and a more than gracious hostess. Her reputation preceded her as a woman with a complete disregard for the strictures of polite society, a woman who sought pleasures regardless of the cost and encouraged others to join her in her iniquities. But in truth, Lady Needham was a small woman with a smart sense of dress and a habit of speaking more plainly than was fashionable.
Maggie thought her hostess to be rather American at heart, and she admired her bravado. She didn’t have much appetite this morning, but Lady Needham was buoying her flagging spirits with her clever quips over the other guests’ fashion choices.
“Blessed angels. Would you have a gander at that atrocious nest of hair?” Lady Needham whispered to Maggie, inclining her head toward the unfortunate woman in question. “I daresay an entire flock of birds could get lost in that monstrosity.”
Maggie giggled into her napkin, keenly enjoying the distraction her hostess’s unbridled tongue provided. Of course, she agreed with her. It was simply that Maggie would never venture such observations aloud.
“What do you think, my dear?” Lady Needham asked sotto voce, giving her a friendly nudge.
“Her dress is a ghastly shade of yellow,” Maggie offered.
“Ah, I love your accent, dear girl. Say ‘ghastly’ again, do.”
“Ghastly,” Maggie complied.
“A New York lady, obviously.” Lady Needham took a sip of juice and studied her with a lively blue gaze. “I’m so pleased you’ve decided to come to my little country house weekend. Did you enjoy the ball last night?”
Maggie swallowed. “I did, yes, my lady.”
“You needn’t stand on ceremony here, dear.” Lady Needham smiled. “You’re not in New York, and you’re not in London. You’re free to do whatever you want and to be whomever you want. My rules. And I daresay those are my only rules.”
“I like your rules,” Maggie admitted. They were freeing. She’d never felt as liberated in her life as she had the night before. But she suspected she’d never again be fortunate enough to feel that way. After all, her lover had left her before dawn with no clue as to his identity and no promise she’d ever see him again.
Still, it all seemed somewhat futile by the stark light of the breakfast table. Until she caught sight of him. He stalked into the breakfast room as if he hadn’t a care. After what they’d shared the night before, she’d know his figure anywhere, that masked, handsome face and dark hair. It was him. The man who had made love to her all night and then vanished by morning.
Her breath escaped from her lungs in a slow flight.
His cold gaze did a tour of the breakfast room, traveling over the occupants until it landed upon her. Maggie froze. Unbidden, the sinful magic he’d worked on her body rose in her mind. She imagined him licking her, sucking her nipples, recalled the feeling of his cock hard and demanding inside her.
Good heavens.
Her drawers were damp already. She looked away from him, flushing, hoping he hadn’t an inkling as to how much he’d been in her thoughts. If he hadn’t cared enough to linger, she had no hope that he would even acknowledge her this morning.