A nymph for a satyr. “You won’t hate me?” she asked, panicked that he might reject her for her advances.
He yanked her closer, her tender nipples boring into his rocklike chest. “Hate you?” he barked. “You come to me with this giving body and this open mind, and you think I will refuse you?”
Trepidation niggled at her resolve. “Women are not supposed to be so forward.”
“In England, yes. But in other lands?” he told her as he splayed the fingers of both hands up into the crown of her head and drew her near to speak on her lips. “In other lands, a wife is expected to be an equal partner in her husband’s bed. She can learn about pleasures and revel in them. So, too, can she ask for them.”
“I want to do those things. I want to be a wife like that.”
“Do you, my darling?” He gazed straight into her eyes.
“I am not a woman who simpers and demurs.”
“Then you are one of a kind.” He wound one of her curls around a finger. “And if you wish to give pleasure as well, then…”
“To you? I do.”
He studied her a moment, and if he measured her veracity, she welcomed it. For what she told him was true. With no other could she have embarked on such an intimate journey. No other did she know so well. So comfortably.
“Well then, you shall have what you wish. No coddling. Only lessons in love.” He shifted beneath her. “Stand up, my sweet.”
She slid off his lap and stood before him, her breasts aching for his mouth, her core pounding, her thighs moist. Her toes wiggled in her stockings, digging into the carpet in expectation.
“To love another’s body, you must first learn to love your own, Felice. Touch your breasts for me.”
She tilted her head, not sure she had heard him.
His turbulent gaze seized hers. “Do it.”
She lifted her breasts, thumbed her nipples and bit her lower lip as a shot of satisfaction rammed through her loins.
“Circle your nipples. There, feel how they swell and point. Tell me in your own words, darling, what you think of that?”
She caught a breath. “I like it. Love the feel of them puckering. Tingling. I need the sensation. Need more of it.”
“Pinch yourself.”
She did and bucked.
“Very nice. Again, my sweet.”
She did and moaned. Her eyes drifted shut.
“Superb. Now stroke your ribs. Yes. And your hips. Strong hips.”
“Not too wide?” she asked, eager for more approval, lost in her own caresses.
“No. Hips are for a man to hold. Yours are lush, meant to have a man’s kiss here.” He bent and placed his lips at the hollow of her hip near her thatch of hair. He gripped her, his fingers sinking into her buttocks. “You smell divine, too.” He kissed her once again. “Now thread your fingers through your pretty nether hair, my darling. Yes, like that. Splendid.”
“Adam?” She pressed her thighs together, her insides gushing with warm desire for him and pulsing, demanding to be filled. “Is this wrong to enjoy?”
“Not at all, my dearest. You prepare yourself for my touch, my kiss, my body inside your luscious one. Now, be a good wife and spread your legs apart. That’s wonderful. You want me, sweet. Say it.”
“I want you. I flow with need for you.”
“Show me.”
Gone was her despair he’d never wanted her. Quaking with knowledge that he admired her assertiveness, she wanted more of his praise. More of his love. More of anything he wished to give. And share. She spread herself wide, opened her lower lips, delving along the smooth skin, silky with creamy fluid and so sensitive to her own touch. She could not find any satisfaction suddenly, and she panicked.
He took her fingers and set them on the nubby spot he’d caressed in the garden. To touch that round spot sent lightning through her and she shuddered. She did it again and could not stroke it quickly enough. “What is this?”
“A bundle of nerves meant to heighten your pleasure. There, you see? You buck and thrash so artlessly. Do it again.”
She complied and thrilled to her own touch. “This is torment.”
“Because you are aroused now, prepared and eager to be filled by me.”
Her eyes shot open, and she saw him, his cock in one hand caressing the tip which gave off drops of fluid. “Send two fingers deep inside yourself.”
She gaped at him.
He smiled with gentle reassurance. “Do it, darling. You will be pleased. Have you not been by what I have taught you thus far?”
She sent two fingers deep into her core and found no words to define the sensations that raged through her.
“What do you feel?”
“Wet. Swollen. Wanton!”
He chuckled. “Now stop.”
She froze. Then she watched him stand and step out of his shoes, breeches and hose. Naked as she, he wrapped one arm around her waist and sent one hand travelling over a breast, a nipple, her belly button to her seam to caress the nub of nerves. She had had the pleasure of his fingers inside her before. This time, she absorbed even wilder delight from his caresses.
“I feel that demand building once more,” she said on a tremulous voice. “What is that?”
“Your urge to our ecstasy. You come so easily, darling.” He stroked one special place along her inner walls, and enchanted, she tilted up her hips into his hand. “Your husband never pleasured you to completion, did he?”
She shook her head. “No, never this wondrous feeling. Oh! Adam!”
He went to his knees. “Open your thighs, my sweet. I want to pleasure you completely. Let me roll you open, darling.” And then he put his mouth to her private places and tasted her with a dancing tongue. This ecstasy was as rich as wild as on the garden bench.
Still, she needed more.
She clutched his shoulders. “Adam, I cannot stand.”
“Mmm, of course you can, sweet. Christ, you are drenched in cream.” He licked her again, rolled her open more widely, and the cool air of the room hit her flesh.
She shivered in mad need of him. “Adam?”
“Yes, darling?” he got the words out between titillating kisses to her folds.
“I…I love this.”
She could have sworn she could feel him smile against her skin.
“I know you do, pet.” He sent two fingers inside her core and stroked her. “You would not be so wet or swollen, so soft or supple if you did not want me badly.”
“I need more,” she demanded. “I want you. Buried deep within me,” she said to the rhythm of his caresses. “Now!”
He pushed her to the chair he had vacated, spread her out, her body entirely open to him, her thighs out wide, then lifted her knees to drape over the armrests.
Beyond reason, she marvelled at her wanton position, spread wide only in love of him.
“Watch me savor you,” he said and bent to put his handsome mouth his to her nub of nerves. She yelped, but he settled her with two hands to her inner thighs. “Watch me suck your pretty lips.”
One hand to the chair cushion, she writhed in erotic torment. “If you don’t fuck me soon, I shall die.”
At her use of the four letter word no woman uttered, she gasped. He lifted his face to stare at her.
She was done now. He’d hate her. Reject her. Leave her in this maddening state, crying from sexual deprivation.
“My darling wife, you astonish me with your vocabulary.”
“I know I am impetuous and—”
“And delightful!” He chuckled and rose up on his knees. “Your pretty chat cries for me inside you and I will give you everything.” His face went rigid in stark need as he took his cock in one hand and put it to her intimate flesh. “You are frank. And lusty.”
He sank inside her with a slow drive. He stretched her channel wide, his shaft hot, satin iron. She threw her head back and let out a cry of fulfillment.
He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. The ecstasy she saw
on his face as he opened his eyes and began to move inside her, astonished her. He seemed transported, possessed and he gazed at her as if she were the only woman he had ever desired. What’s more, he moved like liquid fire inside her.
Wiggling, loving the bliss, she sought to hold him there.
“Darling,” he objected, “you are so swollen, so tight, I cannot move. Let loose, my pet, or we will have no ending that pleases us. Yes, there!” He grunted and began again to pump her in a rhythmic flow. “My god. You are talented at this, do you know?”
“No.” She swallowed loudly. “Don’t stop. You won’t, will you?” She could not help herself from watching how his long red cock disappeared inside her aching core and emerged, shining with her juices. “Never stop.”
He laughed through his exertions.
She chuckled, too, but caught herself short, as he pumped inside her.
“Never,” he said, “made love to a woman who was laughing.”
A wave of ferocious need rolled over her. “Laughter be damned, Adam Stanhope! I want to scream.”
He grabbed both her wrists and held them to the cushion. “Allow me then to help you.” He drove into her then with such a thunderous rhythm she felt the full length of his rod claiming her to the hilt and heard her juices sluicing over him. Joy ripped through her as wave after wave of the most glorious pressure built and pounded through her loins. She broke apart in the deluge, vibrating in the storm.
He rammed her, head thrown back, transported in a fury of his own making. He cried out, as he released his own essences into her.
At last. She drifted in euphoria. She was his wife. In deed as well as word.
She melted backward against the chair. One hand sought his arm as she stroked him in languid repletion.
He withdrew his body from hers in a slow glide that had her moaning in protest.
He gathered her into his arms. “I know, my darling. My body fits so well in yours. We must rest for a few minutes. Or rather, I must.”
She licked her lower lip in anticipation of revelling in such bliss with him again. Smiling, she drew forth the coquette in her nature, so long suppressed. “And then…might we do this once more?”
He snorted and planted a kiss at her temple. “Of course, we will. You have the penchant for multiple orgasms, my pretty wife. A rare and scintillating quality that I plan to nurture.”
Shivering in expectation, she pressed her thighs together and laughed. “You will not disappoint me?”
“Eager woman,” he took her mouth in a quick hard kiss. “I will happily satisfy you as often as you wish. I promise not to disappoint you. Or myself.”
Chapter Six
She was a succulent piece.
He lay awake beside her for hours, enjoying the sight of her voluptuous body in the abandon of sleep. Her large, perfect nipples, her firm breasts. Her rounded stomach. Her thatch of pubic hair. Thick and dark as the hair on her head, her pussy was a beautiful cat. He could not stop himself from stroking her there as she slept. Still swollen from their romps, her body gripped his fingers and made him hard and hungry for her.
Luscious creature that she was, she’d purred in response even as he’d brought to bed water and soap to bathe her. So moved by his cleansing, she’d let him caress her until she rode his hand and begged him to possess her once again with his cock. He’d had not the will to refuse her but had taken his shaft in hand and watched it sink inside her hot walls until he swore she was replete and he milked dry.
How many times had he taken her last night?
He stared at her. Her arms flung out in repose, her expressive lips parted, her large golden eyes closed, she was an erotic sight for only him. His heart bounded with pride. How often had he taken her to the ecstasy she’d asked for and deserved? He grinned and brushed his fingertips over her navel to the top of her seam. Should he make her come again? She came with such abandon every time he touched her. Never had that happened to him here in England. Not even with the woman he had once thought he adored.
Sarah crossed his mind like a ghost. Her spectre matched the woman who, when alive, had transformed within a few months of their marriage into a lying, manipulative unfaithful creature.
He climbed out of bed and made for the balcony. Pale dawn lined the sky. The translucent yellow reminded him of Sarah’s pale hair, and in contrast, the deep blue recalled the color of her eyes. At once, the horror of their marriage came rushing back to him like the hideous travail it had been.
Sarah Collingswood had been the fairest debutante of her Season. Petite, quick and coy, she had interested any young buck who had a mind to marry. Why Adam had found her attractive after his many years in China, he could not say for certain. Perhaps, he was simply ready to marry. She had been lovely. Celebrated. The picture of youth and health. He had known her briefly when she was but a child and had not seen her until he returned to England from Hong Kong and his tenure with his cousin in the export company. But Adam had never delved too deeply beneath the surface of the charming doll who danced at the assemblies and commented with some intelligence over politics and books.
Beneath that façade, Sarah had been childish and vain. Worse, she’d craved attention. Yet even he, for all his knowledge of yin–yang intimacies of sexual congress, could not bring her to orgasm. That had been a harbinger of her other petty traits. She’d been too stiff, too interested in her dignity and what she’d thought were society’s dictums that a wife remain elusive and unresponsive, even in bed. He could never have predicted that she would need other men’s attentions. Or that she would go so far as to commit adultery. And thus, she destroyed his own belief in the goodness of women and substantiated his belief that the famous Stanhope curse was real. Would that he had sought out Felice and wed her instead when he’d returned from Hong Kong. Perhaps he would never have had cause to give the curse any credence.
Yet, for his career and for his son, he’d sought out Felice with the plan to solve his problems with a simple solution of marrying his childhood friend. But one look at her, one conversation with the charming widow, and he’d found he laughed at her wit. On instinct, he’d wanted to offer her marriage. He’d discussed it with Jack and Ulmsly. A few other party leaders as well. His years in China had brushed his reputation with hints of the exotic. Men thought him adventurous. Women thought him dashing, bold. Both sexes attributed to him an eroticism that appealed sub-rosa, but which was too bold for a politician of any national stature. He needed a wife, his friends and colleagues said. And soon.
Two weeks later, he’d ridden down to her cottage, knocked on her door and within minutes, he’d offered marriage with no thought of the hideous family blight of the curse. But the day of his wedding, he’d gotten cold feet. As if abstinence could cure his family’s problem, he had deluded himself into believing the union could be in name only. He had forgotten that he was a man who liked women. Educated, witty, lovely women. Out of bed. And definitely in it.
“And now what have you done?”
Two arms wound around his waist and the warmth of his wife’s body lured him from his dark mood. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done, Mr. Wild.” She pressed a tender kiss to his shoulder. “You have made love to me so often that I am ravenous.”
He chuckled and turned in her embrace. “Hungry, eh?”
Christ, she was stunning in the soft morning light. Gleaming dark hair and luminous eyes, she was so unlike Sarah that he was grateful and proud he’d done so well for himself. Tousled and sleepy-eyed, she smiled up at him.
“What would you like? Eggs? Bacon?” He settled her near to him.
“A bath.”
“A wonderful idea.” He nuzzled her ear and brushed his lips along the line of her throat. “You smell divine.”
“I smell like us!”
“Precisely.” He arched her up to take a nipple between his teeth.
She panted in delight as she let him have his fill of both nipples. “And sex.”
“And you are mine
.”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed, “very much yours.” She pushed away and danced backward toward their bedroom.
He stalked her. “My tub is big enough for two.”
She arched a brow. “Is it indeed? I need food before I make love to you again.”
“I shall feed you as you wash me.”
She sniffed, feigning indifference. “Demanding creature.”
Her need to play spurred his interest. His cock rose. “I have not yet begun to show you just how demanding I can be.”
“Nor have I,” she tossed back, her chin up in the air.
He laughed, waving a finger to indicate his robe that she’d donned. “Remove that, madam. You hide what feeds my hunger. And I refuse to wait to teach you more.”
She shrugged and the garment flowed to the floor.
His balls twitched. His cock rose higher, harder.
“Do you never tire?” she marvelled at his erection, her eyes gleaming with interest.
He took a step, caught her as she giggled and would have run from him. “Not of you.”
She licked her lower lip as he backed her to the wall. “What can you be thinking? To do it standing up?”
“You will like this,” he promised and braced her upright as he lifted one thigh over his hip. “This position is called Bamboos by the Altar.” He tilted her hips so that he could claim her tight little core. “What say you about it?”
“Ahh. Um. Do the bamboo stalks move?”
Words failed him as he filled her to the hilt and rocked with her. Jesus. She was swollen and hot for him. He had not ever had a woman so ready for him at a moment’s suggestion. “Mine does.”
“Deliciously so,” she affirmed as she tried to get closer to him.
He rolled his hips to give her what he asked for. “My stalk is the Yang. It reaches and caresses your grotto.”
She hummed and clutched him closer, her nails in his back. “And does so well, too.”
“Then I can show you this,” he crooned and slid out of her with a pop.
“No!” She beat his shoulder as he snagged her arm and led her toward the bed.
He grinned at her, his pretty, insatiable wife. “I give you another position for your education.” He paused to look her over with narrowed eyes. Her nipples beaded. Her lips parted. How had the gods decided to grant him a woman who truly wanted him in bed? “Bend over. Your hands to the floor.”
The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances Page 5