He moved toward her and did not stop until he had his hands on either side of her surprisingly small waist and lowered his head to set his lips against the pulse at the base of her throat.
She was warm and soft and fragrant. And her body molded itself to his, her generous breasts pressed to his chest, her hips moving slightly to fit more comfortably against him, her thighs warm against his own. He could feel the blood pounding through his body, hammering in his ears, tightening his groin, and pulsing through his stiffening erection.
He lifted his head and kissed her lips, his own parted, his tongue seeking the warm, moist cavity of her mouth. She sucked it deep and pressed it against the roof of her mouth with her own tongue. Her hands slid up his back, beneath his coat and his waistcoat, and then down to spread over his buttocks while her hips moved suggestively and he stiffened further into arousal.
His own hands began the laborious task of opening the small buttons down the back of her gown. He lifted his head and stepped back when the task was completed to nudge the gown off her shoulders and down her arms and then down her body, taking her shift with it, exposing first her magnificent bosom, then her small waist and the alluring curve of her hips, and then her legs, which were long and shapely.
Her garments slithered down to form an emerald green and white heap at her feet, leaving her standing in white gloves and silk stockings and silver dancing slippers.
He could not take his eyes from her. There was something, he realized, even more alluring than nakedness, and this was it. He drew a deep, slow, steadying breath.
She stood looking back at him, her eyelids half drooped over her eyes, her arms at her sides until she extended one toward him and he slowly peeled back the glove and dropped it to the pile. She reached out the other hand and smiled that siren's smile.
When he was finished with the gloves, he went down on one knee before her and slid her stockings down her legs one at a time after first removing the garters. She set each foot in turn on his bent leg as he maneuvered stocking and slipper off the foot and tossed them behind him.
He kissed each instep, each ankle, the inside of each knee, and each warm inner thigh before standing again.
She was quite as lovely as he had anticipated. More so. She was not a small woman in any way, but she was perfectly proportioned, beautifully formed. She was magnificent.
What had ever made him believe that he found youthful slenderness desirable?
He expected that she would now proceed to undress him. Instead, she lifted both bare arms and kept her eyes on his as she drew the pins from her hair. She did it slowly, leisurely, as though there were no rush to get to the bed, as though she were unaware of the bulge of his erection or the barely suppressed quickening of his breathing.
Though her smile indicated that she was very aware indeed.
And her heavy eyelids suggested that she anticipated the main feast with as much desire as he.
He watched as her hair began to come down, and then swallowed as it all cascaded about her face, over her shoulders, and down her back. One heavy lock fell across a breast, and then settled in the valley between.
It was heavy, shining hair of a vibrant red. It was her crowning glory.
For once that tired old clichГ© had real meaning.
He swallowed again.
'Let us go to bed,' she said.
He caught hold of the edges of his coat, just below the lapels, but her hands came up to cover his.
'No,' she said. 'Only your shoes, Lord Merton.'
Her hands left his and moved to the waist of his breeches. Her fingers worked deftly at the buttons while they gazed into each other's eyes.
The flap dropped open.
'Now,' she said, moving her head forward and setting her lips softly to his as she spoke, 'you are ready. Now we are both ready. Let's go to bed.'
He thought for a moment that it was because she could not wait for him to undress. But he knew that was not it. He knew she was cleverer than he. His blood pounded, his desire was almost pain. And it had something to do with the fact that he was fully clothed in his ball finery while she was naked.
She led him toward the bed and threw back the covers before lying down on her back and raising her arms to him as he came down on top of her.
She wrapped her arms about him and moved her breasts and hips against him, murmuring to him with soft, unintelligible words as he settled between her thighs. One of her feet caressed his leg through his breeches and his stocking. With his hands and his mouth he explored her, caressing, teasing, kneading.
He felt her fingers free him from the fabric of his breeches and drawers and feather lightly over his erection. He drew a sharp breath.
She laughed softly and drew him toward the wet heat between her thighs.
But no. This was /not/ seduction. He was /not/ a virgin schoolboy to be played with by a practiced courtesan. He slid his arm beneath hers so that she had to release him, and set his hand where his erection had been a moment ago. He explored her with light, teasing fingers, rubbing, scratching lightly, pressing a little way inside, describing small circles as he did so. With his thumb he found and lightly massaged that small spot that had her drawing a ragged, audible breath.
If he was to be the seduced and she the seductress, then she would also be the seduced and he the seducer.
There was to be equality in this encounter.
Pleasure for both, to be administered and to receive.
He took a firm grasp of her buttocks, positioned himself, waited for her to lift slightly toward him in wordless invitation, and pressed hard into her.
He heard her laugh softly as her inner muscles clenched tightly about him and her legs lifted from the bed to twine about his. He raised himself on his forearms and looked down at her. Candlelight whispered across her face and made flickering flames of her hair, tumbled across the pillow.
'Stephen,' she said, setting her palms against the lapels of his coat, sliding them up to his shoulders.
He shivered at the sound of his name spoken in her low, seductive voice.
'Lady P – '
'Cassandra,' she said.
'Cassandra.'
And she relaxed her inner muscles and rotated her hips about him.
'Stephen,' she said, 'you are very large.'
He laughed.
'And very, very hard,' she said, her eyes mocking him. 'You are very, very much a man.'
'And you, my lady,' he said, 'are very soft and very wet and very hot.
Very, very much a woman.'
Her lips mocked too, though her breathing was not quite steady, and he lowered both his head and his body and moved in her with deep, firm, rhythmic strokes, prolonging the intense, painful pleasure of their coupling for as long as he could before releasing into her and relaxing all his weight down onto her as the blood pounding through his temples gradually subsided and he wondered if he had waited long enough to give her too the ultimate pleasure.
He was ashamed of the fact that he was not sure.
'Cassandra,' he murmured as he withdrew from her and moved off her to lie beside her, his arm still beneath her head.
But there was nothing else to say. The exhaustion of sexual satiety overpowered him and he slid into a deep, satisfied sleep.
He was not sure how long he slept. But when he awoke he was alone – and still dressed in evening clothes that were going to be horribly rumpled.
His valet would scold for a month and threaten to resign and find a gentleman who had greater respect for his skills.
