by Lynne Barron
“Truly, I’ve never…that is…I’ll be damned,” he continued, smiling almost shyly.
She’d pleased him.
Oddly, the thought pleased her. Immensely.
Foolish to care whether or not she’d brought him pleasure. More foolish still to find that her body hummed with arousal. Her breasts were heavy, her nipples tight buds against the confines of her lightweight summer stays. A pulse beat between her legs and moisture gathered in anticipation.
Most foolish of all, she wanted nothing more than to get to her feet and remove every last stitch of her clothing, to lead him to the bed and have her wicked way with the divinely beautiful and charmingly foolish earl.
Ah well, since when had she ever gotten what she truly desired?
Chapter Four
Henry took a long pull of the cheroot clamped between his fingers before tossing it out the open window and turning away to pace across the room.
Georgiana Buchanan had given him a taste of heaven with her avaricious mouth and nimble fingers only to disappear into the bathing room attached to his chamber.
Without allowing him to reciprocate, which most assuredly did not sit well with him.
He’d never in his life left a woman wanting and he’d be damned if she would be the first.
He had every intention of divesting her of her simple yellow dress and whatever frilly underthings she wore beneath it. He would toss her on the bed to worship her small breasts and diddle her quim a bit before pulling her astride him and gifting her with the ride of her life.
If she would only return from the bathing room so that he might begin.
“Georgiana?” He knocked softly on the door.
The door swung open and a blazing whirlwind flew past him only to halt in the center of the room, spinning about to face him with hands on her hips.
“I thought you would be asleep,” she declared.
Henry gaped at the lady, unable to form a single coherent thought beyond, “You’re hair is alive.”
Her hair was outrageous, live flames of bright red and brighter orange, tight corkscrews and looser spirals, each possessed of a mind of its own, shooting this way and that, sweeping across her brow, curling around her shoulders, falling past her breasts nearly to her waist.
“Excuse me?”
Henry felt heat crest his cheeks. What was it about this woman? This skinny woman with her extraordinary eyes and interesting face had him stammering and blushing like a boy.
“Did you just say that my hair is alive?”
He heard the laughter in her soft voice, watched as her lips lifted, so slowly he could count the beats of his heart in the time it took for the smile to bloom on her face.
“Alive and quite lovely.”
“Do you think so?”
“Turn around,” he ordered.
She twirled, curls lifting and soaring, picking up the light from the candles in the wall sconces. Around and around she spun, her arms held aloft at her sides, graceful as a ballerina.
As she came to a stop, still smiling, Henry tugged his dressing robe tightly closed lest she look down and see his cock standing at attention.
“I do like my hair, my lord.”
“Henry.”
“Lady Joy once told me that a woman not blessed with traditional beauty must take vain pleasure in those features that make her unique if she is to be content in her own skin,” she said with a grin.
“Lady Joy?”
“My grandmother.”
“So named because she is decidedly not?”
Georgiana laughed softly, her eyes shining. “To be sure she was a crabby old woman, the Dragon of Loch Canon.”
Henry stepped forward to place his hand on her chin and tilt her head back. “You’ve the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“They are my father’s eyes. And his father before him and so on. The men in my family all have them. I am the only woman in generations to inherit the Buchanan eyes.”
“All the men have your eyes?” Henry asked on a chuckle. “Even Killjoy the libertine who must carouse with exiled Englishmen?”
“They are quite handsome on a man.”
“They are beautiful on a woman,” he countered, snaking one arm around her and pulling her against his chest and nearly off her feet.
“You aren’t tired, are you?” she asked with a pretty pout.
“Not in the least.”
“Would you like me to put my mouth on you again?”
“Most definitely.” He dipped down to brush his lips over hers. “Another time. Right now I’ve a mind to make love to you.”
“Oh.” The way she drew out the word had his cock twitching in anticipation.
Again he swept his lips over hers, taking time to learn their shape, the upper that felt lusher than it looked, the lower almost too plump for his lust to withstand.
She tasted of his tooth powder, bringing to mind the sight of her taking his cock deep into her mouth and swallowing the semen that had exploded from his tight balls.
Delicate, long-fingered hands pushed at his chest and he lifted his head.
“Perhaps we might have a bite to eat, my lord.”
“I’ve already ordered a tray sent up,” he assured her. “The servants will leave it outside the door.”
“I see.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and Henry groaned, his cock pulsing with the memory of that carnal mouth taking him deep.
“We’ve likely an hour before nourishment arrives,” he promised, certain he could bring her to climax twice, perhaps thrice before they sat down to dine.
“Have you any whiskey?”
“Whiskey?”
She nodded, her hair shimmering around her head like a halo.
Releasing her with a laugh, Henry retreated to his sitting room to grab the decanter and two crystal tumblers. When he returned he found Georgiana standing at the window staring out and the darkening sky.
“It’s quite late,” she murmured.
“It’s barely gone seven.”
“My servants are likely missing their dinner.” She turned to face him, her eyes wandering over him from his toes to his mussed hair.
“Critchley has taken them in hand. They are dining belowstairs with my people.”
“Well, are you going to pour me three fingers or stand there looking obnoxiously handsome with the decanter in your hands?” she asked.
“Obnoxiously handsome?” Henry placed his find on a heavy table between two oversized velvet chairs of striped green and gold and poured them each a measure.
“It is quite vexing,” she replied, whisking the fuller tumbler from his hand before flitting across the room to trail her free hand over the tall, intricately carved bedpost at the foot of his bed. “Your beauty, I mean. Makes it difficult for a lady to refuse you.”
“You aren’t thinking to refuse me, are you?” he asked in surprise.
“You sound as if it were an impossibility, as likely as pigs flying or fairies alighting from your woods,” she replied, sipping her drink as she slowly made her way to stand before him once more. “Has no woman ever refused your advances?”
“Of course I’ve been refused,” he answered with a frown.
“When?” She drained half of the glass.
“When?”
“When was the last time a woman refused to take a tumble with you, my lord?” She was teasing him, taunting him with her laughing eyes and sly smile over the rim of the glass.
“Doris Makepeace refused to so much as kiss me.”
“Doris Makepeace is now Lady Statham and has been for nearly a decade,” she said, placing her hand on his chest. “Surely you’ve been left wanting at one time or another in the last ten years.”
“Of course,” he agreed, racking his brain to remember the name of the pretty girl who’d soundly slapped him for attempting to take liberties in a dark garden. “Miranda Hopkins, no Hopson.”
“How old were you?” She pushed at his chest and Henry took
the hint, dropping into the chair behind him.
“I was just down from university,” he admitted.
“So what, eight years ago?” She drained her glass and placed it on the table.
“About that.”
“Sure and you were little more than a boy,” she drawled, tapping one finger on the bottom of his glass until he dutifully took a sip of the potent brew. “Have you been rejected, even one time, since Lady Churchill took you to her bed and shouted your talents from the rooftops?”
“You know about Lady Churchill?”
“All of London knows the lady took you to her bed and kept you there for nigh on a month, my lord,” she replied before turning to sashay across the room.
She stopped in the center of the carpet and slowly turned to face him. “Am I to understand that there has been no one, not a single lady or tavern wench, who has rebuffed your advances?”
“I do not generally…” he began before losing his train of thought altogether when her pale fingers plucked at the lace fichu tucked into her bodice.
“You do not generally what, my lord?” Her voice was low and sinfully sensuous.
“Why are we discussing this?”
“Shall I stop?”
“Stop questioning me? Yes.”
“Stop stripping myself bare before you.”
Henry’s mouth fell open before he snapped it shut again.
One pale hand dropped to her breast and she cupped the small curve, her thumb dragging over her nipple, and Henry realized he could see her nipples, both of them, like little hard candies beneath her gown.
“Tit…” she whispered, twirling her thumb over the bud. “For tat, my lord.”
Hell, if she wanted to hear of each and every one of his amorous adventures, he would tell her. He was painfully hard beneath his robe, his breath tight in his chest.
“Have another sip of whiskey,” she encouraged, bringing her nimble fingers to the fichu once more. “You do not generally what, my lord?”
“Henry,” he corrected before bringing the tumbler up and draining the contents.
Liquid fire seared his throat, burning a path down his chest to settle in his belly, there to mix with the lust that had his abdomen taut and his balls aching.
Georgiana whipped the scrap of lace from between her breasts and unwound it from her neck. She held her hand out before her and met his eyes. “You do not generally what, my lord?”
“I do not generally make advances.”
She blinked in confusion as the lace drifted to the floor. “You do not make advances? You have not seduced the scores of women who sing your praises?”
Rubbing one hand around his heated neck, he watched her warily, curious to learn what she would make of the admission.
She seemed to give herself a little shake, her eyes focusing on him with an intensity that both aroused and befuddled him.
He dropped his gaze to the buttons of her gown. “Tit for tat.”
With a flick of her fingers she freed the top button before moving to the next. “If you do not seduce the ladies into your bed, how do they get there?”
Enthralled by the sight of her fingers slowly baring a narrow line of pale flesh, Henry made no reply.
“Do they approach you, then?”
“Most often,” he admitted as she came to the last button and her dress gaped open to reveal a hint of her corset.
“Most often?” With one slow, languid roll of her shoulders the dress drifted down, the small capped sleeves sliding over her arms. The gown gathered at her waist until, with a twist of her hips, she sent it slithering down her legs to pool at her feet.
“Nearly always.” Henry barely got the words out past the tightness in his throat.
Georgiana stood before him dressed in a thin pink corset trimmed with yellow ribbons and bows and a short matching chemise of cotton so fine as to be nearly transparent, showing quite clearly that she’d left off her drawers.
A shadow of dark red hair capped the apex of glorious legs adorned in white silk stockings tied high on her thighs with more yellow ribbon. On her feet she wore high-heeled slippers of pink satin.
Damn, but she was long and lean, her neck a graceful column, her collarbones twin ridges beneath shallow pools. Her corset hugged her breasts with barely a shadow of cleavage between them. Gently rounded hips swayed as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, and he knew if he touched her, if he grasped her hips and pulled her to him, he would feel the bones jutting beneath her skin.
She was too thin with no bosom whatsoever. Her hair was too orange and entirely too unruly. Her face was barely pretty, and then only for her extraordinary eyes and dainty little chin.
Henry had never wanted a woman more.
“Do you never refuse them?” Her voice was soft and underlain with some emotion he could not name, amusement perhaps.
Henry came to his feet, his heart drumming in his chest. “Shall I unlace you?”
“To be sure I’ve been lacing and unlacing my corset since before I ever needed one,” she replied and there was no mistaking the amusement now. “Be seated my lord. I am as yet unfinished.”
Dropping back into his chair, Henry watched as she slowly turned around, presenting him with her back. She pulled all that wild hair forward before winding her arms around her waist, her hands coming to the small of her back. With deft movements, she tugged the bow loose. Her fingers sped over the laces until she’d loosened them all and her corset fell to land atop her dress.
With a soft sigh, she arched her back, her fingers gently massaging her spine.
Shaking her head, she sent her hair flying to drift down her back. Mesmerized by the sight of her pink bottom through the thin cotton of her chemise, it took Henry a moment to realize the garment was slowly sliding down her back. In seconds it lay on the floor with her other clothes.
Nimbly stepping out of the puddle of clothing, Georgiana turned around.
Lovely.
Her breasts were small but exquisitely formed, perfectly round and topped by the pinkest, prettiest nipples he’d ever seen. Like two juicy berries, they called to him to suckle, to graze his teeth over their succulence, to draw them deep into his mouth.
“You never refuse them, do you?”
Her voice in the quiet room was like the rumble of far-off thunder, near enough to inspire anticipation, distant enough to belie the coming storm.
Henry thought to rise from his chair but could not make himself move just yet. His eyes drank in her perfection, those damnably lovely breasts, the tiny waist, the flame red curls that graced her mound, and the miles of legs still encased in white silk.
“All the ladies want you and you cannot refuse them.”
“Enough,” he growled, undone by the gentle taunt, by the dark laughter underlying the words, by the cadence of her husky voice.
Henry came to his feet, his hands clawing at his dressing robe until it fell to the floor, and stalked her. His vision blurred around the edges until she was all he saw. A glowing fire goddess. His for the taking, to pillage and plunder at will.
Georgiana did not shrink away from the hunger that must be evident on his face, in the rise and fall of his chest, in the fists clenched at his sides. She lifted her chin, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight as she met his gaze.
He snaked out his arms, circling her hips, his hands landing hard on her ass. The slap of flesh on flesh and the soft moan that fell from her lips resonated around them, overlapping, fusing, drawing them together.
He hauled her against him, lifting her off her feet, his head descending, searching for her lips, finding them open in invitation. In the next moment her legs wound around his hips and her arms curled over his shoulders, her hands on his head, her fingers tugging at his hair.
Two steps had her pinned to the wall, his cock riding her cunny, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.
She arched into him, her breasts rubbing sinuously against his chest, her nipples hard little points, a sof
t sigh vibrating against his lips, pushing him closer to the edge. Tightening her thighs around him and digging her slipper heels into his buttocks, she clasped him to her, her hips slowly undulating, pressing her folds against his throbbing shaft only to twist away before returning to torment him yet again. She set up a rolling rhythm that had him in an agony of anticipation for the next swivel of her hips.
Henry gripped her round bottom, his hands molding the soft flesh, as he plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, aroused beyond thought, beyond control, beyond anything but the need to possess her.
Shifting between her thighs, he pushed his cock through her curls until he found her quim. She was hot and wet, wonderfully wet. He prodded the soft portal, vaguely registered the fine tremors pulsing within the tight confines as he nudged the head of his throbbing shaft into her body.
Soft laughter interwoven with low breathy moans hummed from her mouth into his, driving him mad, driving him beyond reason.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he watched her lashes flutter as her eyes drifted closed, and with one fierce thrust plunged his cock deep into her body.
“God above,” he groaned. She was tight, blessedly, wondrously tight around him.
And she was doing something with her inner walls, clasping and releasing his hard length in time to the racing beat of his heart.
Lust clawed at him, pummeling him, blinding him to everything but the need to move, to thrust hard and heavy into her rippling cunny.
He withdrew, her wet flesh pulling at him, and thrust deep once more.
“Holy shit,” he growled, his balls tightening and his climax racing over him, taking him completely by surprise, unraveling the last threads of his control. He thrust savagely into her tight, clenching channel.
He roared out his pleasure, his shock, his wonder, his cock twitching and pulsing as he spent himself inside her body.
“No,” she cried, writhing against him, long legs unwinding to dangle along his thighs, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders, nails raking his flesh.
“Sorry, dove,” he panted, his face buried in her neck.
“You cad,” she hissed.
“Give me a moment,” he begged between sawing breaths.