“Are you friends with all the ladies in your life?”
“I am.”
“You astonish me.” She stretched lazily, still marginally basking in a postcoital glow.
“I haven’t even begun to astonish you,” he roguishly declared, his gaze on her rising breasts, mentally ticking off the length of time he had to fuck her before morning. “If you don’t want to tell me your name-”
“Rosalind. And yours?”
“I’m called Fitz.”
There was that restraint she’d heard before in his voice. “You don’t like your given name?”
“No.”
His curt response effectively curtailed her next question. “Then allow me to say”-with her desires clearly on the rise once again, she was selfishly avoiding any offense-“I look forward to getting to know you better, Fitz.”
“Who made your gown?” His given name-his father’s name-rife with discord, he deliberately changed the subject.
“One of Sofia’s friends designed it. Would you like it off?”
She continued to surprise him. “Yes, I would,” he replied with equal frankness. “Let me help you.”
Sliding off his lap, she rose to her feet, her earlier equivocation long since taken flight. “Unbutton the back for me.”
As she turned her back to him, his mouth curved in a smile. The lady no longer required wooing.
He was back on familiar ground.
Spreading his legs, he pulled her between his thighs and reached for the silk covered buttons at the neck of her gown.
Chapter 9
FIVE MINUTES LATER, she was standing nude before him, her dress draped on the back of his chair, her chemise, drawers, and petticoat in a pile on a nearby table. She was clearly restless and impatient, her nipples taut, her skin pinked in arousal, her hips undulating faintly as if she could barely wait until he was undressed and inside her.
To that end, Fitz was swiftly disrobing, dropping his clothes on the floor with male disregard for subtleties. His jacket, waistcoat, shirt, and tie were off, as were his shoes and socks. He was unbuttoning his trousers when she whispered, “Let me do that.”
He looked up, the wistful longing in her voice instantly bringing his erection to full mast.
She reminded him of an innocent maid, so tentative were her actions, her hands shaking as she unfastened a button. Or maybe just an impatient widow, he thought, although the style of woman mattered little to his libido. Only with effort did he resist pushing her head down and shoving his cock into her mouth. It took even more constraint not to pick her up, carry her to the bed, and plunge into her lush body.
Rosalind wasn’t similarly motivated by constraint, having dispatched the former practicalities of her life in favor of extravagant, feverish, liberating desire. And if she’d not already decided to thoroughly enjoy Groveland’s legendary talents, the sight of his massive, upthrust penis freed now from his trousers would have been reason enough.
She couldn’t help but stare as he casually stripped away the last of his clothing. He was much larger than she’d expected, his size intimidating, although he was relaxed, familiar with women looking at him unclothed.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, aware of her tremulous gaze.
“I wasn’t thinking about that.” She looked up, rosy cheeked and breathless. “May I?”
It had been a long day enlivened by too many erotic fantasies in which Mrs. St. Vincent played a starring role. More to the point, his amorous activities rarely involved wooing a lady, the reverse usually the case. And he’d been drinking for hours and any number of other excuses may have motivated his novel impatience. “You may.” Reaching out, he cupped her head in one hand, pressed it downward, guided his erection into place with his other hand, and watched his cock slide into her mouth.
He smiled faintly as the lovely widow instantly took to her task.
No innocent maid at least in terms of enthusiasm.
Although her ineptitude would require some tutoring; her fingernails were cutting into his penis she was gripping it so tightly. Not that her impassioned earnestness wasn’t more than making up for that slight pain. With a mind to mitigating his discomfort and enhancing the pleasure, he loosened her grip with his fingers and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Instantly contrite, she lifted her gaze, her face pale in the shadowed light and framed by heavy waves of hair, her mouth filled with half his cock, and said in muffled accents, “I’m sorry.”
The sight was enough to bring a monk to climax.
Or a real one at least.
The Monk of London restrained himself with well-practiced skill.
He had his sights on the lady’s cunt.
Until such a time, however, he wasn’t averse to enjoying what the lady was enjoying. Not that she wouldn’t improve with a little training. Not that he wouldn’t like to train her-a curious reflection from a man who abhorred clumsy sex. And if he’d been in a rational frame of mind, he might have noticed the heresy.
What he noticed instead was her little whimpers, the familiar sound evidence of the young widow’s ravenous desire. Her hips were swaying in feverish adjunct to her breathy exhalations, her thighs were pressed tightly together as though to contain the fire within, and he briefly debated where and how he wished to climax.
A very brief debate.
Slipping a finger into her mouth, he eased his erection free, lifted her into his arms, carried her the few steps to the chair, and sitting, disposed her with effortless strength so she was facing him on her knees, his upthrust cock nudging her hot little pussy.
“I can’t wait,” he said, this man who generally made love with careless dispassion.
“Oh, good,” she panted, in artless confession. “I’m vastly impatient to feel you inside me.”
There was something about her innocent candor that touched him beyond the obvious anticipatory pleasure her words evoked. But after a lifetime of eschewing undue emotion, he quickly dismissed the singular feeling. “I almost tumbled you this morning,” he said with a small smile, “so welcome to the world of impatience.”
“Now, if you please.” A brisk command, a wiggle of her hips and a green steady gaze.
“And if I don’t take orders?” A lazy drawl in contrast.
“Allow me to change your mind.” In her new unconstrained mood, she sank down his rigid length like a catapult, and resting on his thighs a second later, impaled and content, she smiled up at him. “I almost
He laughed.
She felt his laugh in delicious compensatory flutters deep inside her and gently rocked her bottom to savor the flaunting enchantment. “So you see, we are both after the same thing.”
“This?” Flexing his legs, he thrust upward and was gratified at her soft, rapturous moan. Gently grasping her hips, he held her securely. “And this?”
Another blissful groan before her lashes lifted marginally, and holding his gaze, she whispered, “And this as well,” as she began slowly rising to her knees.
The delectable friction of skin on skin, the tingling nerve endings sliding one against the other, the exquisitely tight pressure of his erection stretching her pulsing tissue brought new meaning to the word
Stopping midway on her leisurely ascent, she said, breathy and astonished, “Do you feel that?”
He smiled. “Everywhere you can possibly feel anything.” He placed his hands lightly on her hips.
“I know. I think I’ll keep you,” she teased.
“I might let you.”
