The Harlot Countess (13 page)

Suddenly, he wished they had.

Those were thoughts he did not care to entertain at the moment, not when her soft, womanly curves were pressed intimately against him. He carefully strode to the stairs, took them slowly. Though he could claim the fear of waking her had him moving leisurely, the true reason was a reluctance to let her go.

Simon stepped into the yellow chamber. This was his mother’s old suite. He’d never had a woman stay in this room; guests normally stayed on the other side of Barrett House. Odd that Mrs. Timmons had chosen it, but he didn’t mind. He wanted Maggie here. Close to him.

He lowered her to the coverlet. She rolled away, settling into the pillow though her breathing remained steady. He stood there, deciding. He could leave her fully clothed, but women’s garments were not particularly comfortable. And she would require help to get out of them.

He could be practical about it. Wasn’t as if he hadn’t undressed his fair share of ladies before.
Just get it done and leave, man.

The idea nearly made him laugh.

He itched to undress her, but his motives were anything but pure. A familiar ache quickened in his groin as he remembered the previous afternoon’s encounter in her drawing room. The warm clasp of her body. How she’d clutched at him, clung so hard he’d felt the sting of her fingernails through his clothing. And when she’d reached her pleasure at last . . . Christ on a pony, he would never forget her expression as long as he lived. As if he’d gifted her with something precious and rare.

He shook himself. Hardly gentlemanly to stand over her like a lecher. And to remove her clothing would undoubtedly wake her. Slippers. He could deal with slippers. Efficiently, he bent, slid them off her feet, and placed them on the floor.

Perhaps he should loosen the fastenings of her gown. No way to get the contraption off without her cooperation, of course, but he could make her a bit more comfortable. Without jostling her, his fingers plucked at the laces, and as the fabric parted, he caught enticing flashes of her undergarments. His hands slowed. What if he—

What in
hell
was wrong with him? He was four and thirty, not four and ten. And a gentleman. Had he completely lost his mind? He forced himself to drop the laces and pull the bedclothes over her still-dressed form. Then he strode to the adjoining door, where he resolved not to think on Maggie any longer.

Chapter Eleven

The adjoining door closed softly and Maggie took her first true breath in a quarter hour. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating so hard and loud that she’d been sure he would notice. But self-preservation had urged her to keep silent.

His ministrations had been so tender, almost . . . loving. He’d made a concerted effort not to wake her and she’d played along. Besides, if she did stir, what would she possibly say?
Touch me, Simon. Kiss me. Prove what happened yesterday afternoon had not been chance.

It had not been easy. His featherlight touch roused her body, each brush of his hand or press of his finger making her ache. She’d practically purred under his care, like a kitten starved for attention. When he’d unfastened her laces, she’d thought she would melt into a pool of lust before his eyes.

Her breasts heavy with wanting and her core wet with desire, she could hardly breathe with the strength of it. The one spot where pleasure concentrated, the nubbin Simon had stroked to bring her to peak only yesterday, throbbed in time with her heart. He had awakened her in every way, and sleep would not come soon.

She rolled to her back in hopes of alleviating the craving, opened her eyes, and tried to focus on her surroundings. The pretty yellow wallpaper. The bouncing firelight in the grate. She recognized the painting over the mantel as Wilkie’s
Village Politicians
. Appropriate for Barrett House, she thought, considering the political legacy of the Earls of Winchester.

Even the masterful Dutch-inspired work could not distract her, however. Her body clamored for relief.

The adjoining door, was that his bedchamber? He’d gone through not long before, so she had to assume he was on the other side of that partition. What was he doing? Relaxing? Undressing? Or, God help her, bathing?

Imagining his tall, lean frame wet and bare, water sluicing over his limbs, did little to ease her suffering. She cupped a hand between her legs over her clothing, hoping to extinguish the flames of desire licking there—only to gasp at the contact.
Decidedly worse,
she noted in dismay and snatched her hand away.

Why had she consumed the whisky at Madame Hartley’s? If she had not, under no circumstances would she have fallen asleep at Cora’s bedside. Late nights were commonplace for her. She often painted until the wee hours of the morning, not to mention that raucous parties thrown by the Half-Irish Harlot usually continued until daybreak. And if she hadn’t nodded off she’d be at home at the moment, not writhing under the grip of deliciously wicked temptation.

Before she knew it, her feet found the hard floor. Her gown hung awkwardly, nearly off her shoulders since Simon had loosened it. Perhaps she could ask him to finish unlacing it. No, no—this was madness. Reckless insanity. She couldn’t possibly . . . could she? What would she say?

What she should do, what any sane woman would do, she thought as she moved closer to his door, was demand he redo her laces and then send for her carriage. But as her fingers wrapped around the door handle, she knew full well she wouldn’t.

The partition opened soundlessly and she peeked into what turned out to be a bedchamber. The soft glow of flames bounced off the corners of the massive room, revealing large, masculine furnishings. It was precisely the kind of room she expected—

A soft grunt caught her attention, and her eyes swung to the immense four-poster bed.

Her mouth fell open. Simon, bare as the day he was born, had stretched out on top of the coverlet and he was . . . touching himself. His shaft, specifically. He gripped it, stroking up and down, the muscles in his arms shifting as he worked. Eyes closed, face slackened in pleasure, his hand continued a regular rhythm, pumping from root to tip.

Lord above, he was beautiful.

She watched, fascinated, helpless to look away. There was no extra flesh on him. Flat stomach, broad shoulders, heavy, muscled thighs that bunched and twitched under the strain. Light golden hair dusted his upper chest, forearms and legs. He was breathtaking. She longed for her pencils and sketch papers in order to capture the essence of the purely selfish, purely spellbinding action.

The desire she’d felt in the other room paled in comparison to the inferno now raging inside her. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts as he stroked, the pressure clearly building. Top to bottom, then back again. Stronger now, moving faster. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Dug her toes into the carpet to keep from rushing forward. She’d never wanted to touch anyone so badly in all her years. Her limbs nearly vibrated with the force of remaining still.

His free hand came off the bed to rest on his belly, then began to slide lower. It didn’t stop where she assumed. Instead his long leg shifted, opened, and he reached down to cup the sac below. A groan rumbled out of his throat. Maggie’s knees turned to jelly, and she had to clutch the door frame to steady herself.

A small sound must’ve carried across the room because his lids snapped open, and Simon’s blue eyes, glittering and dark, pinned her to the spot. His hands stilled. Maggie held on to the wood, unsure of what she should say. How could she explain her unladylike, brazen behavior?

The fire crackled and hissed while she tried to wade through the murkiness of her mind to arrive at a coherent thought. One haughty blond eyebrow rose. No anger or shame in his expression, merely curiosity. His gaze, however, held wicked promise, almost as if he dared her to come forward.

“Do not stop,” she breathed, her voice a strangled plea.
Oh, God.
Had she truly said that aloud?

The side of his mouth hitched. Releasing the twin weights below his straining erection, he crooked a finger at her. She shook her head wildly. If she got close, there was no telling what she may do.

“Come here, Maggie.”

As if he’d pulled a string tethering her to him, her feet started forward at his husky command. The closer she crept, the more detail she noticed. The ridges, angles, and hollows along his delectable frame. The fine sheen of perspiration coating his skin. A small scar on his muscled abdomen. At the foot of his bed, she grabbed on to the nearest wooden poster, held it.

“I was unaware I had an audience,” he said. The hand began moving once more, drawing her eye below his navel. His palm swept over the bulbous head, then he fisted himself and pumped a few times. “You are so beautiful, all flushed in your arousal. Have you ever seen a man frig himself before?”

“No,” she whispered.

“It’s plain you’ve enjoyed the performance. Tell me what watching me makes you want to do.”

Dishonesty never occurred to her. “I want to lick you.”

His hand stilled and he gave a small intake of breath. “Where?” he rasped.

Her eyes met his. “Everywhere.”

He released his erection and it fell, stiff and proud, against his belly. Simon slid both arms above his head, his body stretched out in front of her in all its straining, aroused, masculine glory. Her mouth went dry. In no hurry, he waited. Clearly challenging her to see what she might do.
Sweet heaven.

Could she do it?

Could she
not
do it?

It wasn’t as if she was an innocent; her maidenhead had been lost years ago. But pleasure, the kind Simon had shown her yesterday, was a recent discovery. She never would have believed it if she hadn’t experienced it for herself, in fact. And, as if it were a bite of Tilda’s lemon cake, she craved more.

Pulse racing, she began to climb onto the bed until he said, “Your dress. I want to take it off.” Bracing both feet on the floor, she turned to present him with her back. She heard him sit up, could feel the heat coming off his big body behind her, and she held her breath. His fingers flew over the laces. “There.”

She pulled her arms through the sleeves and let the gown fall to a puddle of silk on the ground. Before she could step out, he unfastened her petticoat and pushed the straps off her shoulders. Clasping her hips, he spun her around, reached for the ties of her stays. He removed the garment as quickly as the others and then reclined back on his bed, leaving her wearing only her thin shift.

Simon slid his arms back above his head, almost as if he were trying not to touch her. “Will you remove it, so I can watch?”

Maggie bit her lip. She hadn’t removed her clothing in front of a man before; her maid always undressed her, even during her marriage. But she wasn’t shy with Simon. Perhaps she should be, but he’d already seen most of her and anyway, what was one more pair of breasts? Male artists had been focusing on them since they first used sticks to draw in the dirt. And she’d seen enough art to know there were all different sizes and shapes. Hers were certainly not unique.

Grasping the hem of her shift, she lifted it over her head and tossed it to the floor.

Simon’s heavy-lidded gaze raked over her bare form. Everything inside her melted under his hot, appraising stare.

“Jesus, you are even lovelier than I imagined,” he breathed.

“I could say the same about you.”

“Show me,” he said, though it came out more like a plea than an order.

She climbed onto the massive bed and bent to press her mouth to the inside of his knee. The muscles in his leg jumped. Encouraged, she kissed her way up his thigh. The salty heat of his skin, the slight tickle of the wiry hair . . . She felt drugged on the smell and taste of him as she used her teeth and her tongue to mark her path, while Simon’s rapid exhalations echoed in the quiet of the bedchamber.

She nipped his hip bone and he sucked in a breath. Whereas her own experience had been rather limited, the bawdy engravings and illustrations that circulated through London had provided their own carnal education of sorts. The Lemarc sketches she’d produced for Madame Hartley showed couples engaged in all sorts of activities and positions of which Maggie had never dreamed. At the time, she’d dismissed them as fanciful imaginings. But now . . . now she yearned to explore. To discover. To please.

She swiped the tip of her tongue over the head of his engorged penis. His hips jerked.

“Oh, Christ,” he groaned. “Again, darling.”

She complied, this time starting at the root and working up the entire satiny length. When she reached the end, she wrapped her lips around him and sucked deep, drawing his thick erection into her mouth. His head and shoulders levered off the mattress, then dropped back down with a thud. He cursed, long and fluently, muscles tightening.

Remembering the motion of his hand earlier, she began to repeat the action with her mouth as best she could. If nothing else, surely it would feel pleasant enough—

“My God,” he wheezed. “I won’t last if you keep that up.”

She wanted to smile, but clearly couldn’t, so instead she worked harder, the soft, steely velvet sliding between her lips and against her tongue. It gave her a measure of power to be able to pleasure him this way, to be the one in control. She’d never have guessed as much from the erotic drawings. But this was heady, indeed. The ache between her legs increased as she bobbed up and down over his shaft.

Then she recalled something else from earlier. Her hand glided between his legs to the sac below, where she cupped and squeezed him gently.

“Oh, hell. I cannot—” His hips began rocking, quick, shallow thrusts into her mouth as his fists clutched the bedclothes. “I am going to . . . I cannot . . . God, Maggie!” He ended on a shout, and that’s when she tasted the first spurt of thick, ropy liquid on her tongue.

His body spasmed as he spent himself in her mouth, and she held on, tightening her grip on him during the release as best she could. He gasped and bucked, his seed emptying deep into her throat. Finally, when he stopped shuddering, she released him and placed a kiss to his belly. She’d satisfied him. Made him lose control, even. She was nearly giddy with the happiness, drunk on the power.

“Come here,” he panted. Large hands slipped under her arms and he lifted her up next to him. Their eyes met, and his blue depths were soft and full of a tender emotion she felt down to her toes.

He swept her hair back off her face, gathering the heavy mass to one side. “Do you know,” he asked softly, “what I was thinking of while pleasuring myself?”

She shook her head and he continued, “I was imagining you doing precisely as you just did. And the reality, my sweet lady, far exceeded any of my imaginings.” Cupping the back of her neck, he drew her down slowly toward his mouth. “Kiss me. Let me taste you.”

Her mouth met his, and he immediately parted her lips with his tongue and swept inside. She kissed him eagerly, aggressively, feeding the spark between them.

After a moment, he rolled her to her back. “Now I must return the favor.”

 

 

Simon settled between Maggie’s thighs, certain he’d never needed to please a woman more.

He pressed tiny kisses over the soft creamy skin of her inner thigh. He could smell her arousal, could see the glisten of desire on her outer lips. For him. The sight could bring a man to his knees.

He took a moment to merely look at her. Pale skin, with blue veins traceable under the surface. A thatch of black hair covered her mound. Legs parted invitingly. The vision struck him as unbelievably erotic. “God, you are lovely,” he whispered.

With the tip of his tongue, he traced the outer edges of the plump lips that guarded her channel. “Simon!” she gasped and jumped a bit, so he slid his hands beneath her bottom to hold her.

Her reticence surprised him. Surely one of her other lovers had tasted her here. “Relax, Maggie. Let me pleasure you.”

Then he licked her from the bottom of her opening to the tiny bud at the top, barely registering her squeak of shock. How could he pay attention to anything else when she was bared before him, her sex so wet and swollen and undeniably delicious? The sweet tang of her arousal exploded on his tongue and he nearly groaned. He’d never get enough of the taste of her. Indeed, if a man could choose a way to perish, performing this service would be his dying wish.