Portrait of a Scandal (22 page)

A sudden gasp escaped her lips as he touched her tight nipples through the fabric of her shift. Was this the pleasure of which Lady Margaret had spoken? She gasped again when his touch became firmer, sending a fiery bolt of pleasure through her body in one quick pulse. Amazing!

“I am a pure woman, sir,” she murmured. Even surrounded by the dark fog of pleasure he was creating, Claire felt the need to assure him she was no doxy.

“I know that, my rose,” he whispered against her breast, as his lips covered the peak he had touched with his hands moments before.

She gasped in shock as he pulled her flesh and the fabric deep into his mouth. He suckled her for a moment prior to releasing it, but not before gently nipping the flesh with his teeth. Strangely, it did not hurt—in fact, it was a surprising mixture of pleasure and longing for something more.

“I plan to save that for my husband,” she managed to add through her deep, frantic breaths.

She felt moisture form between her thighs. What was happening? Claire was conflicted in her desire now. He no longer held her down, yet she made no effort to rise or remove the fabric he had used to cover her eyes. Her mind wished for her to slap the man for his rakish behaviour, while her body pleaded for him to continue his scandalous exploration of her body.

“That is admirable, my rose, and I will not take it from the lucky man. Our dalliance today will still leave you pure.”

She scowled at his husky words as he slid his hands down her body. “How is that possible, sir?”

“I will give you pleasure without taking my own. Indeed, my pleasure will be from watching your excitement,” he whispered as he moved further down her body to her exposed womanhood.

She gasped, having forgotten she was bare to his view, but he gave her no time to cover herself as she attempted, in vain, to rise. When he settled between her thighs, the man’s weight suddenly rested against her legs. Fear raked her body before a wet and rough sensation she could not name caressed her secret flesh.

Gasping in alarm as he guided his hands to the area she had been previously exploring, Claire was shocked to discover he was invoking very different sensations than she had done herself, moments ago.

The musky smell of the woman whose legs he had settled between, her gasps, moans and shudders of pleasure—all were testing Damon’s promise to leave her innocence intact.

Sliding his tongue along her slit, from her anus to the entry of her cunt, he allowed it to delve inside her, unsurprised at the tightness surrounding him as he worked it in and out, tasting her honey. She was aroused and becoming more so, her sweet nectar heating and dampening the passage he most wanted to explore. But, alas, he was a man of his word. She would hold onto her virginity, for today, at least.

She cried out, gasping for air as he moved farther up her slit, flicking his tongue against the area he had known she was in search of as he had observed her from a distance. How delightful it had been to watch her seek fulfilment, but he could hardly have been cruel and let her needs go unfulfilled, could he? Her comments to her horse had only encouraged him more. So, it seemed his fair maiden had some improper friends—not that he minded. He would not be settled there, between her lush thighs, were it not for her curious nature.

“Oh, sir! I do not want you to stop. Are you sure I will still be pure?” she gasped as he used the flat of his tongue to tease her button of delight.

Murmuring an affirmative, Damon had no desire to leave the sweetness of this woman, nor any desire to postpone her torture. She was a vixen, unknowingly or not. The mews of pleasure, her gasps of shock followed by her uncontrollable thrashing, made him acutely aroused. His cock strained against the confinement of his breeches. She threaded her hands in his hair, urging him closer to her, and he almost bade farewell to her innocence, wanting to submit to his cock’s plea and release it, plunging into her snug warmth. But he could not do that to her. He would not. He would gain his pleasure, and suspected torment, only from experiencing her release second-hand.

Moving his fingers from where they had been wandering over her body, Damon spread one hand over her belly before seeking the softness of her breast. She moaned in approval when he twisted the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, feeling her tiny shudders under his tongue. He wanted more—he
needed
more.

Positioning his other hand at her entrance, he pleaded with himself to remain gentle. She was a maiden and he would not breach her maidenhead, but he would be the first man to enter her. He promised himself that.

Biting down gently on her nub as he slid a single finger inside her, she gasped, no doubt shocked at the feeling. He moved his digit while he teased her clitoris with a determined tongue. How sweet her honey tasted.

Her body bucked beneath him as he simultaneously caressed her from within and along the swollen lips of her core. He felt her body shake before she screamed, sending the birds scattering from the trees above. He slid another finger inside her, stretching her more, yet his need to fill her mixed with his need to be gentle.

The first tremor assaulted his fingers with an overwhelming clench, which he suspected could cut off his blood flow, but what followed only made him work harder to make it last longer. She was a vixen indeed! Her body arched and her fingers clenched his scalp as she screamed louder, without restraint.

Oh, what he would have given to be inside her, experiencing her shattering climax with her! But he was as close as a man had ever been and, for now, Damon knew this was all he could have.

He did not dwindle in his assault on her, and her climax lasted longer than any he had experienced. Even after her screams diminished, still her body did not relent. He slowed his tongue strokes, but her body still milked his finger, refusing to permit his retreat.

Allowing his mouth to travel down her slit, he sipped up her honey, a token he would need to get him through what he knew would be a long and sleepless night. Damon then slid her shift back over her thighs to cover her. He caressed her skin from her ankles to her knees, then to her waist and belly. He had never met a more alluring woman. She was perfection, and a lady. Yet he did not know her name and refused to spoil the moment by asking.

Damon did not want to reveal his identity. He had seen she was an innocent, not only by her actions but also by her comments to her steed. He was not a tempter of innocents, or had not been until her. He did not want to mar his reputation or have a father trap him into a marriage contract with a manipulative woman. Yet Damon knew she had not sought to trap him. Her fear and desire could not have been faked. She was simply a welcome temptation.

Kissing and licking his way to her mouth, Damon was not disappointed when he touched her lips, receiving a tentative and weak response. She was half asleep from the pleasure he had bestowed on her. Damon knew he needed to take his leave, but he would follow her in the shadows, ensuring her safe journey home. She would not see him.

Moving his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “It has been a pleasure, my rose. I will now think only of you when I come upon this stream. For the gift of watching and experiencing your pleasure, I must thank you.”

Claire lay breathing heavily as a feeling of pure bliss floated around her. That feeling was squashed as she acknowledged what she’d done.

Gasping, she sat up, moving to uncover her eyes from behind the cloth which still hindered her vision. He was gone, but she knew it had not been a dream. Still, she scanned the woods around her, finding nothing but her mare, which stood watching her mistress with what Claire deemed a judgmental stare. She turned away in shame, although it was not as if her horse could relate the tale to her father.

A sigh escaped her lips and she looked at the cloth she held, only to discover it was not a cloth—instead, a man’s cravat. Deep blue, with tiny flecks of silver sewn though the delicate fabric. Claire realised he had been a man of means, if not nobility. Had he known who she was?

Scanning the woods a final time, she found no one and was disappointed, yet she accepted that he had fled. After dressing in a rather hasty manner, Claire was soon mounting her mare, conscious of the dampness between her thighs but uncertain whether it was from her swim or her folly. She clutched the cravat of the man she would dream about, then tucked it safely within the confines of her dress’ pocket. It was a token she planned to keep.

The ride home was not too long, but wearying nonetheless. Claire pined for the loss of a man she could not even name. The way he had called her his rose would be forever imprinted in her memory. His deep voice and the affection his tone had held brought a smile to her lips. None, not even her father, had blessed her with such affection. No, she was simply the older sister with little chance of securing a good marriage. Her sister had assured her it was only her fine dowry that would attract a husband at tomorrow’s ball. Claire feared she was correct. Her champion in the woods hadn’t cared enough to stay. Why would any other man?

Tears threatened as she entered the gates of Deonsay, but she would not allow them to fall. In his embrace today, she had felt cherished and cared for. It was a memory she would hold onto, no matter who she wed. She would always dream of the man she had never seen, of a voice which could awaken her desires from within.

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About the Author

Living in the remote part of Australia called the Northern Territory, Danielle conforms to the typical Aussie persona. That is, if you think the typical Aussie sits around the BBQ with a beer in hand, dressed in a singlet, shorts and “pluggers” (rubber thongs) thinking nothing of the thirty-five degree Celsius heat with a hundred per cent humidity and ignoring the snapping handbags (saltwater crocodiles) swimming nearby. Yep, Danielle is certainly that typical Aussie on weekends, but during the week, she is somewhat different.

Transporting herself to a place of history, intrigue and fornication, Danielle writes historicals laced with scandal, lust and desire, with no thought to propriety or what’s socially considered “proper”. She adores the handsome rogue or the wild rake that refuses to acknowledge to the possibility of love or monogamy. What woman doesn’t like the allure of the wonton tempter, with his tightly fitted breeches and devilish smile? *swoons!*

Danielle believes there is something hugely gratifying about taming that wild gentleman, and is kind enough to haul us along for the ride.

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Danielle loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
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Also by Danielle Lisle

Rogues of Deception: The Rose’s Bloom

Rogues of Deception: The Virgin at Goodrich Hall

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