“Oh! Ohh. Oh, Nick.”
She gripped his shoulders as a drowning man—or woman—might grab a tree limb to keep from being swept away by a flood. Her hips twisted on the bed. Each stroke of his tongue, each brush of his fingers made her breasts—and channel—ache. How had Nick forged that link?
She opened her legs to cool the heat and, yes, invite him to visit—
Lud, am I damp there?
She should be dying of embarrassment, but she had no room for anything but need—mindless, compelling, demanding, and, yes, drenching need.
This was nothing like her experience with Dervington.
Another stroke of Nick’s tongue, and she couldn’t even remember the marquess’s name.
And then Nick’s hand started to move. It slid slowly over her ribs, over her belly, nearer and nearer to where she most ached for him. . . .
And stopped. His fingers tangled in the curls right above her entrance—right above another throbbing nub.
She needed him to touch her there.
Now.
She opened her legs wider to give him a hint.
She moaned. Whimpered. Tried to tilt her hips up, to close the small space between her ache and his finger, but Nick’s hand held her still.
“Patience,” he murmured again, his mouth moving back to hers.
Patience?! Was he mad?
She dodged his mouth.
“No. No patience. Now. I need you now!”
“Oh? Where do you need me?”
This was no time for a bloody conversation. They weren’t taking tea, for God’s sake.
“You know where. Move your finger.”
He’d propped his head up on one hand, the other being engaged—well, not engaged—elsewhere, and smiled at her, a lazy sort of smile, just a pulling up at the corners of his mouth. His eyes watched her intently. He looked so . . .
Familiar.
No, that wasn’t it—or not only it. Rather, he looked as if he cared about her. As if he wanted something for her that she’d want for herself if she only knew it existed.
Well, she knew one thing she wanted.
“Move. Your. Blasted. Finger.”
He grinned. “I love how demanding you are, Caro. How strong.” His grin softened into . . . tenderness? Was that what this expression was? She was quite, quite certain no one had ever smiled at her this way before.
And then all coherent thought dissolved as his finger finally moved, the tip sliding below her curls, brushing ever so lightly over her aching flesh.
“Oh!” The sensation shot to her breasts as well—and Nick kindly leaned forward to flick his tongue over one nipple. “Oh!”
“Do you like that?”
Like it? It was agony. And heaven. She looked at him through a haze of desire. “Ahh.”
That was all she could manage.
Except . . .
His finger had gone still once more! It rested against her desperate flesh, taunting her. She tried again to arch her hips up, but again his hand kept her from moving.
His strength was both oddly comforting and infuriating.
“Still impatient, are you?”
Was there humor in Nick’s voice? Perhaps, but she thought she heard a note of need there, too, so she forgave him—a little.
“Yes! Move your finger again. Now.”
He brushed her lips with his. “I have a better idea. I’m going to kiss you there, all right?”
She gaped at him. There? He couldn’t mean there. The notion was shocking. Embarrassing. Wildly improper.
Oh, who the hell cared?
“Yes. Yes. Just do it, Nick.”
“Your wish is my command.”
His mouth started down her body, kissing, licking, stroking, following the path his hand had taken earlier, moving closer.
Closer.
She panted, arched her back, willed him to hurry—and yet take his time....
He nuzzled her curls. He was so close. She felt his warm breath on her. . . .
“Nick . . .”
He looked up at her, grinning again. “Yes? Did you wish to discuss something?”
“Nick!” She’d pull his hair if she could reach it.
“Or were you asking me to use my tongue for other matters?”
His tongue? What did he mean by—oh!
The warm, wet tip dipped down to touch her. Ohh. This was what she needed. This was exactly what she needed. She’d had no idea....
“Nick! Oh. Oh, Nick.”
Her world shrunk to Nick’s tongue sliding over and around her, drawing her tighter and tighter.
“Nick. Dear Lord, Nick, please. Please.”
“Shh.” Nick lifted his head, taking his lovely tongue away from the magic it had been making in her.
She wanted to cry.
“Shh.” He stretched out next to her again, wrapped an arm around her, and held her close as his finger took up where his tongue had left off.
“Oh.” She pressed her face into his chest, breathing in his scent, warmed and comforted by the touch of his skin. “Oh. Oh, Nick.”
His finger dipped and stroked and pressed. She wanted it to move faster and yet slower. She wanted whatever was coming to come and not come. She wanted—
“Nick!” It was coming. There was no stopping it. She was going to shatter into a million pieces and never be the same again.
“It’s all right, Caro. Let go. I have you.”
“No. I can’t. I—Nick. Oh, God, Nick. Nick!”
She shouted his name and let go. She had no choice. The force growing inside her was too strong to resist. She let go, and something inside her convulsed. Pleasure exploded through her, wave after wave after wave of overwhelming, deeply carnal pleasure.
And then she collapsed against Nick, limp, completely spent—and totally changed.
No. It’s an illusion. I haven’t changed at all.
Liar.
She felt changed. Whether the change would last . . . That she didn’t know.
If I can stay with Nick ...
No. That was foolishness. Nick was a viscount. She had a business to run. Jo needed her. Nick didn’t.
Nick’s hand stroked down her back. She felt his lips brush her hair.
“Good?”
“Yes.” Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. The day after was Christmas. She would allow herself to live this fantasy for that long. And then the snow would melt, and she’d go back to her real life at the Home in Little Puddledon.
“I believe I won our wager,” Nick said.
Wager? Oh, yes. She had screamed his name, hadn’t she?
“And now you must pay up. I await your polite thanks.”
She heard amusement in his voice, but also a note of strain.
Right. He hadn’t had any glorious release—or any release at all.
She tilted her head to look up into his face. He was smiling, but there was definitely a tightness to his expression. And need in his eyes and . . . loneliness?
An unfamiliar feeling welled up in her breast. She cared how Nick felt. She wanted to make him feel better. But how?
Sexual congress would surely do the trick. She’d even be willing to put up with the discomfort. It couldn’t hurt as much as she remembered.
Maybe there wouldn’t be any discomfort this time. Perhaps—
No. Even if the experience proved to be as wonderful as what she’d just felt—almost impossible to imagine—she couldn’t risk pregnancy. Yes, Nick had said he would marry her if she conceived, but she wasn’t totty-headed enough to chance changing her life for a few minutes of, well, sympathy.
Perhaps a hug, as small as that was, would help. She leaned into him—
And he flinched. Oh! She’d put pressure on the place where his poor cock was hiding under his fall.
Well, not hiding very well. His fall was definitely bulging.
“Careful,” he said. “I’m a little, er, sensitive there.”
Sensitive. She’d heard women at the Home talk
of how sensitive a man’s organ was. How much it liked being stroked and kissed and . . . licked.
She’d assumed they’d been making some lewd joke, but perhaps not.
Nick kissed me that way. I should kiss him back.
Fear flickered to life, but she snuffed it quickly. She was not going to be ruled by fear any longer. She was done with giving Dervington any power over her. She was older and wiser now, and she trusted Nick. She was going to be fearless. Bold.
If other women could kiss a man’s cock, she could, too—that is, if Nick would like it.
She put her hand gently on his fall and felt his organ twitch—eagerly, she thought. She stroked it—and smiled when she heard Nick suck in his breath just like she’d done when he’d touched her.
“May I thank you impolitely?”
“Ahh.”
Was he shocked? Disgusted? Perhaps she should—
Be bold. Surely what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander.
“I’m not certain that is a good idea.”
She heard yearning in his voice. She searched his face again—a face that was becoming all too dear to her—and saw yearning there, too.
“Why isn’t it a good idea?”
He frowned. “You aren’t a light-skirts, Caro. You’re a—”
“Brewer. Don’t worry. I’m not planning to change careers.”
His eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to suggest such a thing! It’s just that, no matter what you say, you’re gently bred. Such behavior can’t be appropriate for a gently bred female.”
“Why not?”
That stumped him. He blinked, his mouth dropping open slightly.
“If you insist on talking about propriety, Nick, a gently bred female would not be naked in bed with a man who’s not her husband nor would she have allowed any of the liberties I just allowed you.”
Does he look abashed or regretful?
That would never do.
“Liberties I thoroughly enjoyed,” she added quickly. She would not regret what they’d just done. She’d felt a lifetime’s worth of regret and shame over the Dervington business, and where had that got her? Bah! She was as done with those feelings as she was with fear. This had been her choice. She’d made her decision freely. She would stand by it.
She suddenly felt rather powerful.
Nick did not yet look convinced, but she thought he was wavering.
“You made me an offer, Nick—a truly exceptional offer. As you said, I may never have this opportunity again.” She grinned. “Never again have a man at my beck and call.”
And there would be something . . . healing, perhaps, in taking control of matters. She’d had so little control thirteen years ago.
“I would like to experiment—if that’s all right with you, of course.” She wanted to stroke him again, but she restrained herself.
She’d asked. Now she had to wait for his answer.
“Are you quite, quite certain, Caro?”
“Yes.” Ah. Best to clarify precisely what she was certain about. “That is, I am certain I want to do to you what you did to me.” She grinned. “Just lie back. I shall do all the, ah, work this time.”
His answering grin made her surprisingly happy. “Very well. Shall I remove my breeches first?”
“Yes. I’m naked. You should be, too.”
He stood and unbuttoned his fall—and his cock leaped out, apparently delighted to be freed from confinement.
To think I once—well, twice—had something this long and thick inside me . . .
Instead of shrinking at that memory, the relevant part of her body gave a little shiver of excitement. Because this was Nick, and the man attached to the organ made all the difference.
Nick would have filled my emptiness just now . . .
Right. And possibly given me a child. Get your head out of the clouds!
She watched Nick’s cock waggle about as he climbed back into bed. What an ungainly organ it was. Rather homely and quite ridiculous really. Even when Nick stretched out on his back, it didn’t lie down quietly, but bobbed about.
She touched it cautiously—and it jumped with apparent eagerness.
She circled it with her finger and thumb, measuring its girth—which seemed to increase as she held it—and then traced its length from tip to base.
She heard Nick suck in his breath—and she smiled. He liked what she was doing.
She stroked him again, exploring. Experimenting.
How different his body was from hers.
Of course it was. Male and female were made to fit together to make children.
It would be nice . . .
No, it would not be nice to have a child, especially without a husband. Children were a lot of work; she knew that from tending her siblings and from living at the Home. Children needed care and attention. They needed to be fed and clothed and educated. They were a distraction from one’s work. A worry. Look at poor Mrs.—no, Miss—Dixon.
Yes. Look at her love for Grace and Edward. Look at Pen’s love for Harriet.
And Mama’s love for me?
Oh! She’d thought, growing up, that her mother—and her father—had loved her. She’d assumed it, counted on it—and then she’d got that horrible letter disowning her.
I’m just as alone as Nick. . . .
She pushed the thought away. She had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here. She needed to get on with it.
She stroked Nick again—and he moaned.
Must it be just a once-in-a-lifetime experience?
She shoved that thought away, even though it seemed her heart wanted to grab onto it and never let go.
Her heart was a fool. Yes, Nick had mentioned marriage. Once by accident—he’d admitted to being shocked himself by the offer. And once as a way to fix a mistake should she conceive. Neither had been accompanied with professions of undying love.
It only made sense that he would wish for their connection to be nothing more than an amusing way to pass the time. Her arrival had interrupted his orgy, after all. He’d been at loose ends, deprived of his sport, and she’d walked right into his arms with her daft charade suggestion.
But—
No! She must use her brain, not her heart. It didn’t matter what Nick wanted. She didn’t want to leave the Home. She had important work to do there.
And she had “work” to do here, too.
She focused on the organ awaiting her further ministrations.
An organ attached to Nick ...
She told her heart to be quiet as she continued her experiments—stroking, gently squeezing, growing bolder with each of Nick’s indrawn breaths, each gasp, each moan. She was in control now, just as Nick had been in control before.
Could she make him feel all the wonderful things she’d felt? He was a man. . . .
She grinned down at his cock, swallowing a giggle. Yes, indeed, he was most definitely a man.
She would follow his lead. She’d kiss him as he’d kissed her. She’d use her tongue as he’d used his.
She licked his entire length as if he were a tasty, melting ice and she needed to capture every drop.
“Uhh!” Nick’s hips lifted off the bed.
Her grin widened. She was succeeding—and it made her feel very, very powerful. Oh, look. Here’s a real drop at his tip. She lapped it up.
Nick moaned again, his hips lifting, twisting. “Caro. Oh. God. Caro.”
Yes, he appeared to be driven just as mindless as she’d been earlier.
She licked him again, letting his sounds of desire guide her.
“Caro. I—oh. Ah. Ahh.”
He stiffened. She pulled back in time to see his cock tighten and then pulse, a thick fluid spurting onto his belly.
This must be what causes a child to begin.
She felt oddly sad that it had spilled out here where it had no hope of bringing life....
Have you lost your mind?
Yes, perhaps she had. Her heart had pushed to the fore again. This w
asn’t just some man; this was Nick. Whom she cared about. Whom she felt even closer to now.
Nick will make wonderful babies, handsome strong sons and beautiful strong daughters. He’ll love them and care for them and raise them to be good men and women.
His wife, whomever she would be, would be very lucky.
I wish . . .
No, I do not wish. Remember the Home. Remember Widow’s Brew.
And remember that even if she were willing to give up her current life, she’d never be accepted by Society. Yes, she’d been born to the gentry—unlike Pen who was a farmer’s daughter—but Caro had been disowned by her father and had broken one of Society’s most fundamental rules by giving Dervington her virginity outside of marriage. Pen, at least, had eventually married the man she’d “sinned” with.
Nick was a viscount, albeit a somewhat disreputable one. He could not like to have his wife given the cut direct at every turn.
He was smiling at her now, warmth and something else in his eyes....
Oh, God, he’s not going to ask me to marry him again, is he?
She couldn’t let him do that. She didn’t trust herself at the moment to do the honorable, sensible thing and say no.
And she would have to say no. She couldn’t desert the Home. And she couldn’t bear to be the anchor keeping Nick from moving forward in Society, especially now, when it looked as if he was ready to take charge of his estate and other responsibilities.
Apparently, this was another danger of intimate activities. Besides risking pregnancy, they made people think foolish thoughts. Imagine connections that weren’t there.
The snow, the forced togetherness, and, perhaps most of all, the bloody Christmas merriment weren’t helping either. The Christmas season could make even the most practical person dream of families and babies and miracles.
She had to break this spell before Nick did something he’d forever regret. How better than to state the obvious, no matter how impolite?
“You’re rather a mess.”
Nick’s eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Yes. Could I trouble you to hand me my handkerchief? It’s in my breeches pocket.”
Chapter Seventeen
Do I really want to marry Caro?
Nick wrapped a muffler several times around his neck. It was Christmas Eve morning, and he was standing with his guests as they donned coats, hats, and boots, readying to go out into the nasty, bitter cold to gather holly and ivy and other greenery with which to festoon the house.
The Merry Viscount Page 23