A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World (43 page)

She inhaled again, smiling like an ancient goddess. Heaven save him.

He lay on the bed, mischievously lying on his front, though it took a bit of adjustment.

He heard a sort of humph, but then oiled fingers slid across his back. He muttered into the pillow, praying for strength.

How typical of Georgia Maybury that in all innocence she found a novel sensation. He’d been massaged by professionals, and some of them had also been lovers, but he’d never before been tenderly, hesitantly, stroked in this way.

Both sets of fingers slid across his shoulders, then came together again to slip down his back. They went away, but then oil dribbled into the small of his back and her hands settled there, circling and then pushing up and down.

Down, down, and her oiled hands settled on his buttocks. He sucked in a breath, and she asked, “Should I stop?”

“No. But I wish there were a mirror so I could watch you, all green and white, stroking me, looking at me, I hope with pleasure.”

“A mirror? You’re a shocking man, Lord Dracy.”

“You could spank me for it.”

She giggled and slapped him.

“I see I’ll have to provide you with a switch.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, soothing the spot where he’d hardly felt her blow.

He smiled, but then put the erotic images aside. Control was hard enough as it was.

She flexed her hands on his muscles, then slid them down onto his thighs, squeezing, then stroking. Then she lightened her touch so she barely stirred the hair there.

“Witch.”

She chuckled in a way that celebrated her growing awareness of her power. “Such hard muscles,” she said, running fingers down his calves.

“And other bits. I’m turning over.”

He did so and she shifted back. “I’m not going to…even when it’s your turn. I can’t.…”

He sat up and took her hands. “I know. It’s all right. I need to deal with it, though.”

“Deal with it?”

He glanced at the clock. “Your fifteen minutes are over. My first command is that you wait here for me.”

She wrinkled her brow, but said, “I obey.” Then with a wicked twinkle, she added, “In ripe anticipation of your commands, my lord and master.”

Dracy swept up his robe, putting it on as he left the room. She learned quickly, far too quickly, and he adored her more by every moment. He went no farther than the corridor, where he indulged in memories of her touch and visions of complex pleasures as he shot his seed into a handful of the robe, doubtless ruining it.

It was a part of his past he no longer wanted, and perhaps he was now safe for fifteen more minutes with Georgia Maybury. He returned to his room.

Heaven help him, but she’d perched on the side of the bed, hands in her lap, ankles crossed. Embroidered green silk slippers peeped shyly from under her pure white hem.

“Are you deliberately looking like a schoolroom miss?”

“Do I? I’m sorry.”

“How little you understand men. No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It was a tease.”

“But I don’t understand,” she said, “and I’ve been
thinking what a handicap it is to me. Not understanding. It makes selection of a husband like buying a horse without the slightest idea of breeds, points, or conformation.”

He leaned back against the door, fighting noisy, outright laughter. “You are completely delightful, Georgia Maybury.”

“Because I’m an ignorant wigeon?”

“Because you’re frank and ready to learn.”

“Only with you,” she said. But that clearly struck her, for she quickly added, “What are your commands, my lord?”

He walked forward, put his hands at her waist, and swung her off the bed, showing his strength before putting her slowly down a yard or so away.

A small cloud of hair powder went with her and they both laughed.

He took her place on the bed and said, “Strip.”

She’d been expecting it and showed only the briefest hesitation before unfastening her robe and letting it slither off to pool on the floor.

“Wait,” he said. “I want to enjoy each layer.”

She obeyed, but said, “It’s a very plain nightgown.”

“It’s perfect.”

Her white linen nightgown was completely concealing, but it pleased him more than any of the veils of Madame Mirabelle’s living statues.

“Go on.”

She looked down as she undid the first of the six buttons leading down from her neck, but as she undid the second she looked at him, attempting to be bold. Her gaze slipped by to some spot behind him.

A better man would give her a reprieve.

He was about to do that, when she shifted her gaze back to his and held it as she worked down the buttons to the sixth and last, the one between her high, firm breasts. As she unfastened that one she suddenly smiled in knowing pleasure of the effect on him.

Goddess that she was, she then took her time over untying the laces that kept her ruffles snug at her wrists.

Then instead of taking off the nightgown, she removed her pretty slippers and placed them neatly, side by side.

Then, only then, did she raise the voluminous garment by the hem and take it off over her head, gradually revealing all her secrets. He was breathless and speechless—but then she coughed at a new small cloud of powder. Laughing, she shook her head, generating more as she tossed the garment aside, and he had to laugh too.

She stood there proudly and looked him in the eye. “What now, my lord and master?”

Heaven save him. He wanted to fall to his knees and kiss her pretty toes.

“Turn,” he said. As she obeyed, he said, “You’re perfectly formed. Do you know that?”

She peeped backward at him. “Everything seems in the right place, I admit.”

“And everything is just as it should be. That’s the prettiest arse I’ve ever seen.”

She continued slowly in her turn. “That doesn’t mean much when they’re normally covered by hoops and skirts.”

“Depends where you are,” he said with a grin. “Now come to me.”

She stayed where she was. “I told you, I can’t risk getting with child.”

He loved that her brain and sense of caution were still working. It meant he could push her harder.

“I’ll not put you in danger. Trust me.”

He thought perhaps she wouldn’t, but then she obeyed, as supple and elegant on bare feet as in heeled shoes, hips swaying, high breasts moving just a delicious bit.

He put his hands on her waist, feeling her tremor. “Your husband truly never enjoyed this?”

She shrugged, and it was not a sensible question. He commanded himself to sense.

He oiled his hands, rubbing them together, then put them on her sides and slid them down, enjoying her caught breath, a sway of reaction.

He slid his hands around her buttocks. “So round where a woman should be round”—he settled at her waist a moment—“so trim where a woman should be trim.” He cupped her perfect breasts. “So plump where a woman should be plump. And so proud where a woman should be proud.”

He leaned forward and gently sucked on one jutting pink nipple.

She jerked, but he ignored it, holding her firmly as he completed his homage to one breast and then attended to the other. Her hands clutched his shoulders, breath catching, and he wanted to go down to hell to thrash her husband. No, the poor lad had probably been as ignorant as she, thinking his brief pumping pleasure the best to be had.

She was quivering now, and he smiled into her wide, anxious eyes. “I will command, but you can refuse if I distress you. You remember that?”

She nodded, but then whispered, “This is…this is…normal?”

“Too tricky a question for now, sweet Circe.”

He kissed her gently, wanting above all to give her that, the gentle loving that was in his heart. He tasted her soft lips, her warm mouth, holding her soft, silken body to his.

He could enjoy this for hours, but he had so few minutes.

He slid his mouth to her ear. “This is very normal. We could do this in our drawing room, in our garden, or beneath an apple tree in our orchard.”

He was painting a picture. Was she listening?

She shifted to look him in the eye. “Rather more clothed, I hope? For now, if you please, something we could not do in all those places?”

He took her mouth more forcefully, glorying in the way she melted into him, sharing the passion in her soul, the passion that matched his. He could have kissed her like this too for hours, if they had hours, but too many minutes were gone.

She wanted something more, something she hadn’t yet even imagined.

He would give her that.

Chapter 26

H
e broke the kiss and said, “Step up onto the bed.”

“Up?” she asked.

“Yes.”

He handed her up the three steps, admiring her feet, her toes, her neat ankles and shapely legs. A lady’s legs were the great mystery, and sometimes a disappointment, but nothing about Georgia disappointed. Nothing could. If she’d revealed herself to be thin hipped, her breasts an illusion of padding, and her legs as straight as tree trunks, it would have made no difference to his besotted mind, but as it was, she threatened his sanity.

She stood on the mattress, her head brushing the fringed valance, looking down at him. “This excites you?”

He smiled up at her. “It will. Hold the rail on either side of your head.”

She did so, but said, “This is peculiar.”

“You’ll need something to hold on to. I hope the bars are sturdy. Spread your legs.”

“What?” He saw hesitation and the beginning of rebellion, but then she shifted her feet sideways on the down mattress.

“More.”

She spread them more, but frowning now. “What are you going to do?”

“Mystery can be part of the pleasure. Are you uncomfortable?”

“I’m not sure I like this. Tell me what you’re going to do. You said I could object.”

He ran an oiled finger up the inside of her right leg to brush her inner thigh. “Pleasure you. You can always escape. Where you are now, you could knee me in the nose.”

“An unusual opportunity, I’ll grant. Why are you doing that?”

He was using both hands now on her thighs. “Don’t you like it?”

She wriggled slightly. “Perhaps, but this is your time, not mine.”

“My only desire is to pleasure you. Permit me, but remember that you can stop me with a word.”

“What word?”

“Stop,” he said and moved one hand slowly, gently, into the dusky pink folds between her legs.

Georgia gripped the rail tighter, sure she should object, for decency’s sake if no other. She’d agreed to this wager knowing it would be wicked. But she’d had no idea what wickedness might mean.

Heaven help her, he was touching her
there
. No wonder it was sinful. Sins so often seemed to be wickedly pleasurable.

She made a noise, and her legs quivered. He murmured something she could make no sense of, but it sounded pleased, or encouraging. Encouraging of what?

She was aching down there now, low in her belly, between her legs. It had happened before, at odd times, and she’d been aware of a hunger, a need. She’d never connected it to Dickon’s messy invasions, but now she did.

Now—yes—now she wanted, needed, to be invaded. To have that hard thrusting. There. Now. “Please…” She’d said it. “No. I mean…we can’t.”