by Lynne Barron
“Get off me, you great lummox.”
Henry pried his hands from her soft ass and lowered her to the floor, moaning in exquisite agony as his shaft pulled free of the clasp of her snug quim. He stepped back on legs that shook, thinking to sweep her into his arms and onto the bed for a bit of cuddling while he regained his wits before finishing what he’d so ungallantly interrupted with his precipitous completion.
But Georgiana pushed past him. She spared him not so much as a glance as she marched across the room in her pink slippers, one stocking drooping around her ankle.
Henry watched the sway of her pink ass until she disappeared into the bathing room, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter Five
The great lummox was lounging at the table with a napkin tucked into the lapels of his brocade dressing gown when Georgie emerged from the bathing room after twenty minutes spent attempting to rid her body of his seed.
With a pheasant leg in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, Hastings looked up from the table with a lopsided smile that did queer things to her insides. Which infuriated her to no end.
She breezed by him in search of her gown only to come up short when she did not find it lying on the floor where she’d left it. She spun about to face him, battling to hold on to her temper. “Where are my clothes?”
“I sent them to be pressed,” he answered, ducking his head over his plate. “The servants will return them in the morning.”
She opened her mouth to demand that he fetch them back immediately. She could hardly sneak about his house naked. And she had no intention of remaining under his roof until morning.
But he was tucking into his dinner as if he hadn’t eaten in three days and drinking brandy like it was water.
Surely he would be snoring in his bed before long.
With that thought uppermost in her mind, Georgie marched to his dresser and rifled through the drawers until she found rows of pressed white shirts. Removing one she pulled it over her head and rolled up the sleeves before turning to wander about the perimeter of the room. She extinguished every candle in the sconces that dotted the walls until the room was a patchwork of dark shadows and golden light from a handful of tapered candles spaced about the room.
Two orgasms, a little food, a quantity of brandy and a darkened room ought to put the lord to sleep.
Georgie joined Hastings at the table, dropping into the empty chair with a sigh.
“Sure and that was poorly done, my lord,” she admonished, lifting the lid of a silver platter to find an entire roast pheasant, less the leg his lordship was currently devouring, swimming in a congealing sauce of some sort.
“Why did you run off?” he asked. “I had every intention of seeing to your pleasure just as soon as I’d regained my wits.”
Seeing to her pleasure? Was it possible the man did not realize she’d climaxed the moment he’d breached her body?
If the cocky lord couldn’t recognize a woman in the throes of a rollicking good release nor pull out before reaching his own, he most assuredly did not deserve the reputation he’d somehow earned. Nor did he deserve to be enlightened. In fact he deserved to be tormented a bit.
“No need,” she assured him, dropping the lid with a clatter. “I saw to it myself.”
Hastings made a choking sound and she darted a quick glance his way as she lifted another lid. He was staring at her from comically round eyes, a flush spreading over his cheeks.
“You saw to your own pleasure?” he croaked out. “Just now? In my bathing room?”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, her temper falling away at the look of astonishment on his face. She peered into the second platter. Shaved beef on toast swimming in gravy. “Did you want to watch?”
“Sweet mercy,” he murmured.
“Does one of these dishes contain vegetables?”
“Would you allow me to watch you…” He waved his hand about, dripping sauce on the tablecloth.
“Bring myself to climax?” she finished for him, finally finding a porcelain dish filled with potatoes and white beans in butter.
“That is a sight I would truly love to see.”
“I imagine one woman diddles herself much like the next.” Georgie heaped potatoes and beans onto her plate before slathering butter on two thick slices of bread.
Lord Hastings watched her, both elbows propped on the table, his fowl forgotten in his hand.
“Or perhaps not,” she considered, delighted by his wonder despite her intention to remain untouched by his boyish charm. “Perhaps some women use the right hand while others use the left.”
“Which do you use?”
“The right. The left is for tweaking my titties.”
Hastings dropped the pheasant leg onto his plate and fell back against his chair with a groan.
Georgie let him stew on that while she dug into her meal, discovering with the first bite that she was quite ravenous.
And why not? She’d been pacing the warped boards of her rented rooms for the better part of three days with her stomach in knots, undone by the news that the Countess of Hastings had passed away.
“You’ve beautiful breasts,” the earl said some minutes later.
Looking up from her plate she eyed him suspiciously, not at all certain he wasn’t toying with her.
“Truly,” he assured her with a grin. “Quite the loveliest titties I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” she replied on a huff of laughter.
“Your nipples are like ripe berries,” he continued, his eyes dropping to her chest.
Georgie looked down, not the least bit surprised to see the sensitive buds clearly visible beneath the fine cotton of his shirt. Under their combined regard, the tight buds hardened and lengthened, pressing against the fabric. Heat pooled between her legs and it was all she could do not to squirm in her seat.
She might have erred when she’d decided to torture the man for his transgressions, most specifically spending his seed in her body and failing to recognize the gift of her climax. The diddling of her quim and fondling of her nipples likely weren’t subjects destined to put the earl to sleep.
“Eat your dinner, my lord,” she murmured, plucking up another piece of bread and heaping butter on it.
“Henry,” he corrected, apparently not inclined to adhere to her gentle command. “I’d much rather eat your berries.
“Does that sort of nonsense customarily work for you?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Nonsense?”
“Eat your berries,” she mimicked. “Play my pipe. Has that ever worked for you?”
“I seem to recall you on your knees before me not too long ago,” he pointed out with a soft chuckle.
“It wasn’t because you’d compared your prick to a pipe, of that you can be certain,” she replied, amused by his arrogance.
“I don’t give a fig as to the why of it,” he said.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” she agreed knowing full well he’d be less than pleased if he knew the true reason she’d fallen to her knees before him.
Deciding it was time, beyond time, the handsome gent took to his bed, Georgie feigned a yawn, daintily lifting her hand to cover her mouth, watching him to see if he reciprocated.
“Are you tired, Georgiana?” he asked, his voice a smooth, silky caress. “Perhaps we ought to retire.”
“But you have not finished your dinner,” she argued, disconcerted to realize the man wasn’t tired at all. No he had another reason entirely for wanting her in his great sultan’s bed.
“I’ve had all I want,” he countered, his gaze dipping to her breasts once more. “Of food that is.”
Good lord, the man was as randy as a boy. Twice she’d brought him to release and still he was intent upon bedding her. When the ladies whispered of his amazing stamina, she’d mistakenly believed they’d meant he could stay hard above them for hours at a time. Clearly the ladies of the ton believed a man need only have the ability to get hard repe
atedly throughout the night to be considered an exceptional lover.
So be it. She had a trick or two up her sleeve for the handsome devil who apparently had never watched a woman pleasure herself. She’d tease him with a few well-placed caresses until he took himself in hand. Then she would tuck him to sleep beneath his luxurious counterpane.
Georgie scooted her chair back from the table, angling the seat so that the lord would have an unimpeded view, before whipping her borrowed shirt over her head and shaking out her hair.
“Christ, you’re lovely,” he murmured as she lounged back, her stocking-clad legs stretched out before her and crossed at the ankle, affording him only a glimpse of the curly hairs that hid her treasures.
“I’m pleased you think so,” she purred, bringing her hands up to cup her breasts.
His eyes riveted on her fingers, on her nipples poking between them, Hastings shifted about in an obvious attempt to hide the bulge beneath his dressing gown, succeeding only in pulling the garment open to the waist. His chest beneath was bronzed and lightly sprinkled with golden curls tapering to a fine line over his flat abdomen.
“Mmm,” she hummed. “My nipples are so hard.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Lovely berries.”
“Would you like to nibble my berries?” she asked, fighting a giggle.
“Christ, yes.”
“Soon, my lord,” she crooned, pinching the stiff peaks and setting tingles running down her limbs. “We’ve all night.”
“There’ll be no rushing this time,” he promised, raising his gaze to skim over her features, lingering for a heartbeat on her lips.
Georgie smiled, fully intending to bring him to spend on the plush velvet chair. Of course she might need to pleasure herself in his bathing room afterward.
Already she was trembling with desire from his heated gaze, from his husky voice, from simply looking upon his too handsome face and broad chest.
Lightly pinching her nipples, she sighed softly as her desire spiked. Increasing the pressure nearly to the point of pain, Georgie plucked at her nipples, elongating them before releasing them altogether, forgetting for a moment that she meant to drive the man before her to distraction, not herself.
“Do you want me?” she whispered.
“Yes, I want you.”
“Show me,” she purred, her gaze dropping to the evidence tenting his dressing gown.
Hastings clawed at the belt of the robe, shifting this way and that until he pushed the garment from his wide shoulders, leaving it pooled around his hips. His cock rose from a nest of dark curls, long and thick, the head bobbing as he fell back against the chair with a groan.
With one final swipe across her aching nipples, Georgie slowly trailed her hands downward, over her ribs to the smooth expanse of her belly.
Lowering her lashes she watched the handsome lord follow the movement, his face flushed, his mouth open, his tongue coasting over his lower lip, back and forth. His eyes were dark pools beneath heavy lids, his hands fisted on the armrests, and his shaft twitching.
Georgie swirled her fingers through the curls covering her mound.
“Damn me,” Hastings rasped out.
Forgoing the soft flesh between her legs, she coasted her hands over her hips and down her outer thighs until her fingers met the ribbons anchoring her stockings in place. She paused there, contemplated lifting one leg then the other and slowly rolling the silk down.
Instead she unlocked her ankles and allowed her legs to fall open before trailing her fingers up along the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. When she reached the curls hiding her womanhood she paused to take in his reaction.
Hastings was captivated by the show, his legs falling open, his hips jerking and twitching, setting his cock bouncing. His chest rose and fell as he dragged a raspy breath deep into his lungs.
And still he did not take himself in hand. Rather his hands came down to rest beside his hips, his fingers clawing at the silk of his discarded dressing gown.
“You’re killing me,” he groaned, his gaze lifting to her face.
Meeting the earl’s eyes, she draped one leg over the armrest, opening herself to him. Trailing one hand up and over her hip, her waist, she cupped her breast, squeezing the nipple between finger and thumb. The other hand continued along her inner thigh, coming to rest over her curls, her fingers dipping down to cover the throbbing bud within.
“Holy shit,” he growled.
And still his fingers grasped the fabric bunched around him.
Georgie circled the tight bud of her clit, over and around, setting up a tempo that had her hips swiveling in counterpoint. She plucked at her nipple, pinching and releasing the peak until desire had her strung tight, her breath leaving her in soft whimpers and sighs.
“Are you wet?” he asked around a low groan.
Georgie pushed two fingers through her folds, forward and back, dragging over her clit, teasing them both, before easing one finger into her quim. Slowly she withdrew it, only to thrust in once more, deeper, harder.
Hastings watched through slitted eyes, a muscle ticking along his jaw.
Withdrawing her finger, she held it up to the light, showing him the glistening moisture before bringing it to her lips. She drew the salty flesh into her mouth, suckling daintily.
“I want to taste you.” Hastings’ voice was a rough whisper and filled with command.
And his cock was in his hand.
Georgie watched him stroke the turgid length from base to tip and back as she leaned forward to offer him her finger.
He sucked greedily, his eyes open and hungry on her and she felt the pull deep within her core, as if he’d touched her there with his avaricious mouth.
In the next moment, he was on his feet, one arm slashing out, sending dishes and silverware, pheasant and potatoes flying about. Porcelain and crystal shattered, forks and spoons shot across the room, one silver platter spun crazily across the floor before slamming into the wall.
“My lord,” Georgie breathed in mingled surprise and anticipation.
Hastings scooped her up, turning to deposit her on the table, the cloth smooth and cool on her bare bottom. With his thighs wedged between hers legs, his cock heavy at the opening to her body, he clasped her head between his hands and tilted her face back, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Eyes glowing as blue as the hottest flame, jaw clamped tight, face flushed, he might have been a Viking warrior, intent upon laying claim to the bounty of war.
“Henry,” he growled, the sound seemingly ripped from some dark place and forced out between clenched teeth. Notching the head of his shaft into her body, he drew a raspy breath before thrusting hard and deep.
Sighing as he filled her, stretching her to the edge of pain, she curled her hands around his arms, needing something to cling to as desire claimed her. Hastings withdrew only to drive into her again and again, lifting her from the table with each powerful lunge. Wrapping her legs around his back, she met each forceful thrust with a twist of her hips, taking him deep into her body. Bliss erupted, her cunny pulsing and clenching around his pistoning shaft, the rolling waves ricocheting off his hard length to batter her walls, sending her soaring higher and higher.
A laughter-laced moan fell from her lips, a cry of joy building in her throat.
Georgie captured his mouth, sealed her lips over his, and poured the soft cry into his mouth, the sound broken and tremulous.
Hastings’ tongue drove into her mouth, his fingers tangled in her hair as he ruthlessly thrust into her body. She sighed into his mouth, the final tremors of her climax giving way to the beginnings of the next.
Arching her back and dragging her nipples across his chest, Georgie writhed against him, chasing an orgasm that hovered just on the horizon.
Hastings groaned, his lips vibrating against hers, the sound desperate and broken.
Between one breath and the next, Georgie fell into an abyss of searing light and rollicking waves too overpowering to
contain.
Breaking the kiss, she buried her face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, her mouth pressed against his warm flesh to muffle the laughter that fought for freedom as she convulsed around his foraging cock.
“Christ almighty,” he groaned. “I can only take so much.”
Lost in her own pleasure, Georgie barely registered his words.
Hastings thrust deep, pounding into her spasming quim, his raspy breath hot against her temple.
“You’ll make me come.”
Those words she heard.
“No,” she whispered, knowing she ought to stop him but too overcome with white-hot pleasure to put much conviction in her denial.
“Georgiana!” His big frame shook, his hips bucking violently, and his hard thighs trembling between her legs. She felt his jism shoot into her body, pummeling her pulsating walls, sending her soaring once more.
When her senses returned Hastings was lifting her from the table, one strong arm curled beneath her knees, the other snug at her back.
“Sorry, dove,” he murmured at her temple as he carried her to the big sultan’s bed covered with a plush velvet counterpane.
He pulled back the covers and dropped her in the center of the soft mattress, falling in beside her and pulling her against him.
Curling her leg across his thighs and draping her arm over his chest, she rested her cheek on his chest right above the rapid beat of his heart.
“Just give me a minute,” he whispered drowsily. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”
The next sound she heard was the Earl of Hastings, London’s greatest gift to the ladies, snoring softly.
Chapter Six
“Ahem, my lord.”
Henry pried his eyes open to find his valet standing at the foot of the bed, his dark gaze fixed on some point above the canopy, his bald head shining in the sunlight streaming through the open curtains. Across one bent arm he carried his master’s robe from the night before, while in the hand of the other he held a steaming cup of coffee.
“Davenport,” Henry muttered, his eyes drifting closed again. “Can you not see that I have company?”