On These Silken Sheets

by Sabrina Darby

  He walked toward her, his gaze lingering over her body.

  “Lie back.”

  Curious, she pushed aside the flimsy dress and did as he said. He reached the side of the bed.

  He sat beside her, studying her body as if she were a delicacy he wasn’t quite sure how to eat. The tension of wondering, waiting, was killing her.

  Finally he moved. He slowly teased the length of the cravat across her body, from her ankle, up her calf, up her thigh. Tantalizing her.

  She shivered, wanting and needing his touch.

  The cravat still moved, over her hip, across her rib cage, over her left breast, leaving the nipple puckered and aching in its wake. He slid the fabric across her chest, to the underside of her jaw, and Maggie arched her head back to take more.

  Back down her body the teasing cloth went, over her right breast, to her hip, across her thigh. She parted her legs, welcoming him to touch her however and wherever he liked.

  The fabric swept across her overheated flesh, drawing pearly fluid from her folds, and she clenched her thighs tightly together, trapping the cravat, rubbing herself against it.

  She heard his low groan like it was water in the desert. Her lips parted, willing him to kiss her. Willing him to cover her with his body and fill her aching, empty cunt with every inch of him.

  “No, not yet,” he whispered and pulled the cloth away from her. “Lift your arms over your head.”

  She did as he asked, watching him, even as her thighs pressed together again and again, seeking relief for her throbbing cunt.

  He took her wrists gently in his hands and wound the length of cloth around them. Immediately, instinctively, she tested the knot. It gave a tiny bit then stopped, the binding secure but not painful.

  Again he paused, studying her.

  “Touch me,” she demanded, thinking of their first night, of how he had pleased her.

  “Shh,” he brushed away her words.

  But he did touch her, he had to touch her. It was what he’d wanted since he had first seen her in the hallway upstairs. It was what he had wanted since he had left her last night and all through his working day.

  He followed the well-defined path of the cravat and kissed her ankle, the sensitive hollow by the bone. He kissed his way up her calf, and licked the tender place behind her knee till she writhed under him in agony and he could smell the sweet scent of her arousal.

  Her soft, supple skin yielded to his tongue as he worked his way up her leg, over the mixture of curves and firm muscles that met each kiss and caress.

  He knew what she liked. She had told in explicit terms, guided him, taught him. He wondered if he could use that knowledge to tease her, bring her to the edge of ecstasy and hold her there.

  His lips on her hip, his senses overwhelmed with her body, he understood completely now John Donne’s words: “O my America, my new-found-land.” He explored, claimed the territory of her body for his own, and branded his seal on her with each touch.

  “It’s too much,” she cried out, twisting her head away, when he teased overlong the delicate skin of her neck. He held her still and kissed her again, but he pressed his palm against the damp, aroused flesh between her legs to ease the tension.

  The feel of her heat was too tempting and Oakley slid his third finger between the folds, pushing deep inside.

  She bucked against him, trembling, close to the edge. He knew she wanted more, wanted him filling her. He wanted that too, but not so soon.

  “Now,” Maggie urged. He moved his hand away.

  She held her breath, knowing she’d feel him, the head of his cock pushing the walls of her pussy apart.

  He moved away.

  The absence of his body hardly eased the fever between her legs. She watched him now, as he undressed, wondering what he would do next, how he would tease her, taunt her with unfulfilled pleasure.

  Finally he stood nude by the bed, wearing only the strip of silk around his eyes.

  He straddled her. He knelt above her, his knees on either side and she stared at his body, at the beautiful muscles and firm skin. Her fingers itched to touch him and she twisted her wrists helplessly within the knot of the cravat.

  He rubbed his cock over her breasts, settling in the valley and squeezing them just slightly together, pillowing him.

  Then he moved upward, the musky scent of him intoxicating. The heat of his balls touched her neck as he touched the head of his cock to her lips. She opened her mouth eagerly to take him in. Her tongue swirled over the glistening drops at the tip, savoring the tangy taste.

  He pushed his hips forward so that he slid hard and full into her mouth. She welcomed him in, sucking, licking. Her thighs writhed, trying to ease the almost painful tension in her now dripping pussy.

  He pulled away and moved back down her body, rubbing his wet cock over her skin, then running the head up and down the slit of her nether lips. She strained to watch him, the sight of his cock against her pussy unbearably arousing.

  Fill me! She wanted to yell, but she held back. The rules of this night’s game were different and she was afraid he wouldn’t give it to her if she asked for it.

  He moved down yet again, till his breath was hot on her cunt. The silk of his mask teased her skin even as his tongue swirled around the nub of her clitoris.

  She was rising. She knew that sensation, that almost cold, surprising build. She closed her eyes in anticipation.

  But apparently, he knew too, for Poseidon’s mouth left her. She shuddered in frustration.

  Then his hands pushed her legs apart, wider, and the heat of his body covered hers.

  “Come for me,” he whispered.

  The sudden, hard thrust of his cock took her over the edge and she wrapped herself around him even as she bucked and trembled against him.

  He was relentless now, pushing her past her orgasm, till her body was one mass of tingling movement, and starbursts overlapped behind her closed eyes.

  Only when he finally released himself inside her did she find the afterglow, the soft, drunken comedown, more intense than anything she had ever experienced before.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Oakley’s days split in two: the respectable, conscientious lord by day, fulfilling his civic duty, and the passionate adventurer at night, exploring the new lands of an exotic woman.

  It took Sunday, a day of church and rest, to keep Oakley from Amphitrite’s arms.

  “We haven’t seen much of you,” Lady Oakley stated, assessing him over the long dining table as they took dinner. “Not since that incident.” The aborted betrothal—but his mother could hardly know that he didn’t care about Miss Hargreaves anymore.

  Charles snickered and Oakley skewered his youngest brother with a look. The nineteen-year-old rolled his eyes and Oakley felt very much like being as childish as his sibling.

  “You’re never home, dear,” his mother continued. Charles snickered again.

  “What?” Emily demanded.

  Oakley belatedly realized what his little sister had discovered before him: Charles had some small bit of information he found vastly amusing that he thought no one else knew.

  Which could only be…

  “Charlie, I hope you don’t expect me to advance your quarterly allowance. If you aren’t going to go to university or join the army like our brother, the least you could do is be responsible.” It was a sad excuse for obfuscation and Oakley knew it. Unfortunately, so did everyone else. Or, at least, all but his youngest sister, Isabel. At six, she was still more concerned with her make-believe world than with any society gossip.

  “You’re young, darling,” Lady Oakley said after a moment, as if there hadn’t been any interruption. “You don’t have to get married so soon.”

  “You do have two younger brothers,” Charles added, grinning. “And if you cock up your toes, I know Philip will be kinder with the purse strings than you are.”

  “It should suit both your purposes that marriage is the last thing on my mind,�
� Oakley stated with a sigh. In fact he was grateful to Stanton for winning Carolina away. How had he ever thought he could have been happy with her?

  But then, he hadn’t known anything about passion a week before. Oakley now knew that when he did marry, the woman would have to be someone who stoked his ardor as greatly as Amphitrite. Otherwise, if he married simply for duty, the temptation to be a philanderer would be too great.

  Chapter Twenty

  But who would ever arouse him as Amphitrite did?

  Two days later, in the thin, early morning light that crept between the folds of the heavy velvet indigo curtains, Oakley studied the woman beside him. She lay on her stomach, her face pressed into the pillow and one hand curled under. The mask had shifted in the night and lay twisted around her neck so that if he lifted the heavy mass of curls he would see her face.

  She had been so careful to keep the mask on all night, to insist he keep his.

  His fingers itched. He lifted his hand to her head, ran it over the curls, down to the dip of her neck. There he parted the silken strands and stroked the soft skin beneath.

  He’d keep her mystery. There was an erotic fascination with making love to a woman one knew so intimately but did not really know at all.

  He slid his fingers over the corded tie of the mask, down her spine, down to the curve of her buttocks and thighs. One knee was bent, her leg pulled up. He delved in between to the hot slit beneath and stroked the tight curls that blanketed her mound of Venus.

  Her legs shifted, allowing him greater access. The tenor of her breath changed and he knew she was awake.

  His index finger slid into the tight, wet passage. Awake and aroused.

  He leaned over and kissed her neck, even as his fingers continued to play. He knew now what she liked, what elicited those surprised, high-pitched cries of delight.

  Oakley licked a path to her earlobe and then caught the tender flesh between his teeth, nibbling, licking.

  Her body trembled under his ministrations, her hips pushed against the bed and his hands, circling.

  Her movements quickened and he matched her pace with the quick strokes of his tongue and the motion of his hand.

  Suddenly she arched up, crying out, her muscles griping his fingers convulsively, drenching them in her juices.

  He slid his fingers out, grasped her hips with both hands and covered her with his body. He raised her hips to meet the first thrust of his cock and smoothly slid home.

  He wasn’t certain if the sigh was hers or his. Perhaps it belonged to both of them. She fit him like the tightest, warmest glove, tailored perfectly for his body.

  He kissed her neck again, even as he slowly thrust in and out, finding the morning’s languid rhythm, stoking the embers of her climax.

  He stretched his arms out and threaded his fingers through hers, savoring the tension of pulling away even as she pushed back up against his thrusts.

  They made love slowly and languorously, as if they had all the time in the world. And indeed, they did. If he could stay right there, buried in her velvet heat forever, he hardly cared if he made it to his morning appointments at all.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There he was. Across the room, standing amongst a group of men, his tall, lean form, elegant within his evening attire.

  Though the broad expanse of his back faced her, no doubt about his identity existed in her mind. When he turned slightly, his profile revealed, Maggie stared hungrily at the mouth that, only hours ago, she had suckled on as if in a dream.

  Within a moment’s inquiry she discovered he was Lord Oakley. The woman, a Mrs. Frampton, filled her in on all the recent gossip: his failed engagement, the rumors about the famously stuffy earl suddenly engaging in much less stuffy activities.

  Maggie flushed at that, knowing she had been his companion in those activities.

  She looked around wildly for Diana, for some center within the swirling world she had suddenly entered. She located her first by her laugh, then she saw her friend standing near the buffet, not seven feet from Lord Oakley.

  She made her way toward Diana carefully, unable to tear her gaze from Oakley. She had almost reached her friend when he and another gentleman broke away from their small cluster and headed in the direction of the refreshment tables, directly in front of Maggie.

  She held her breath, horrified, excited. Perhaps in just a moment he would see her, know her, and perhaps embarrass her completely.

  But he walked right past her without recognition. Why would he recognize her? Lacking the glamour of candlelight, costume and face paint, Maggie was plain. Utterly forgettable.

  He was an earl. She was nothing but the widow of a lawyer. Her presence at this ball was an oddity in itself; they should never be frequenting the same social circles. Were this not the home of Earnestina Ashburton, Diana’s close friend, Maggie would never have obtained an invitation. Lady Ashburton had received her cordially but with distance, and as much as it rankled, Maggie could not fault the woman for her discretion. After all, what mattered was that the invitation had been proffered.

  But here she was, inches from the man she knew so intimately, with whom she had even shared her darkest fears, and yet she could not touch him the way she wished.

  “Maggie, dear,” Diana whispered, joining her where she stood, still rooted in place. “You look ill. Don’t tell me the crab cakes are off. I had four of them already, but they did taste—”

  “No,” Maggie interrupted. “It’s not that. It’s…he’s here.”

  Diana didn’t need to be told which “he” she referred to. She scanned the room.

  “Are you certain?” she said finally.

  “Quite,” Maggie assured her, with a tight smile. “I’d know him anywhere.”

  “Well, where is he then? Who is he?” Diana pressed.

  “You mustn’t tell anyone,” Maggie said, quickly.

  Diana shot her a quelling look and Maggie smiled sheepishly. “Yes, I’m sorry, Di. You are the great keeper of secrets.”

  “And don’t you forget it.” Diana accepted the apology. “Well?”

  “Lord Oakley.”

  “Oakley!”

  “Shh.” Maggie pulled Diana toward the far end of the room. From their new position, they both observed him as he stood with two other men whom Maggie did not recognize, drinking his newly acquired punch.

  “Handsome he may be, but I would never have taken him for a man who could make a woman scream,” Diana remarked, admiringly. “It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

  “He hasn’t recognized me,” Maggie said, hating the plaintive note in her voice.

  “Now I understand why the man’s name came up on the list of member applicants,” Diana mused. “He’s completely besotted with you.”

  “With my body, perhaps,” Maggie said, blushing, “as I am with his.”

  “You know, my dear, I’ve never actually met the man before. Shall we endeavor to get ourselves introduced?”

  Oakley viewed the small group of females bearing down on him with a small, silent groan. Ever since his failed betrothal, women had been throwing themselves at him, thinking he was either eager for a marriage or needed to be consoled.

  His hostess, Lady Ashburton, was dragging two women of similar age with her. They weren’t much older than the current crop of debutantes, but the bold colors of their dresses and their more confident strides signified they were wives or widows rather then fresh-out-of-the-schoolroom misses.

  He sighed. He wouldn’t have even come tonight, but he’d wanted a chance to speak with Lord Westley in a more social setting, where he could feel out the man’s thoughts on the upcoming vote in the Lords.

  “Lord Oakley!” Lady Ashburton said, warmly. “I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine. Lady Blount, Mrs. Coswell, may I present Lord Oakley?”

  He bowed.

  He had seen Lady Blount before. With her striking auburn hair, overflowing bosom and husky laugh, she was hard to miss. The slen
der Mrs. Coswell also looked familiar—intense brown eyes, pale fine skin, brown curls.

  “A pleasure, ladies.” Oakley smiled, polite as always. Inside, he was not feeling so polite. He hadn’t been feeling particularly polite ever since that first night he had stepped inside Harridan House and lost himself there.

  Lady Blount started a conversation about something; Oakley couldn’t hold on to the thread of the discussion. He nodded his head in what seemed the appropriate spots, his eyes focused away, on the ground. He barely noticed when Lady Ashburton excused herself.

  The hem of Mrs. Coswell’s gown was decorated with a rectilinear, neoclassical stripe.

  He sighed. Everything reminded him of Amphitrite. His body had clearly decided that it craved more and more carnal delights. He wanted nothing more than to leave this tiresome ball and head straight to the club. But she had said she would not be there before one.

  Until now he had not stopped to wonder how her time would be occupied before then.

  “Do forgive me, Lord Oakley, we’ll have to continue this scintillating conversation at some other time,” Lady Blount said, grabbing his attention. “I must say hello to Lady Burke.”

  He watched her go, the sarcasm of her pointed words sinking in. He certainly had not been holding up his end of the conversation. He decided to go in search of a drink.

  Then he realized that the quiet Mrs. Coswell was still by his side, waiting expectantly.

  How he swallowed his impatient groan, he never knew, but he held out his arm and inquired if she would like some refreshment.

  She rested her gloved arm on his and smiled up at him. For a moment he was struck by the familiarity of her sweet smile, the way the pink lips curved up so easily. He knew now just how lips shaped as hers would feel on his cock, on any part of his body.

  With effort, Oakley pulled his thoughts away before his body betrayed his imagination and embarrassed Mrs. Coswell. He had to stop thinking of his little sea goddess and imposing her image and skills on any woman who crossed his path.