Page 62 of My Best Friend's Earl
Her hand slipped under his cravat to the opening in his shirt. They both sighed when bare skin met bare skin. “Have you abstained from everything? Wait, I wasn’t your first kiss, was I?”
His chuckle ended on a hiss when those clever fingers delved farther under his shirt and found a nipple. “You were my third kiss.”
A saucy grin made her eyes light. “Really? What about looking, but not touching? Bawdy houses, and the like.”
There must be an invisible string he’d never noticed running between his nipple and his balls, because with every touch, pressure built between his legs. “Do you really want the specifics right now?”
Her smile turned wicked when she lightly pinched his nipple and he gasped. “If I’m going to let you into my body, I think I have the right to ask questions. I’ll answer any youhave for me. But if you’d rather not discuss specifics, as you say, I can respect that. Especially knowing you don’t carry the pox or the clap.”
“Am I to gather you aren’t a virgin then?” Oliver kept his voice light, lest she think he was somehow passing judgment.
Despite his efforts, her smile froze. “Is that a problem?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m glad one of us knows what they’re doing.”
The line of her shoulders softened. “My former fiancé and I anticipated the marriage bed. I’ve kissed plenty of men, but you’ll be my second lover.”
Shifting to straddle his lap, she clung to his front like a spider monkey. “This is better. Now tell me, Lord Southwyn, if I’m to be your first woman, what do you want from this encounter? You’ve waited for this, and I’d hate to disappoint you.” The question was teasing, but Oliver heard the sincerity behind it.
His hands traced down her spine, then snugged under the lush curve of her bottom. “First of all, stop with the title nonsense. If by some miracle I manage to make you come, it would be awkward as hell for you to yell ‘Lord Southwyn’ in the heat of passion.” As he’d hoped, she laughed. But because she was Constance, she still managed to surprise him.
“Oh, Lord Southwyn! God, yes! Harder, Lord Southwyn!”
Fuck. She was funning with him, but her approximation of a woman in the throes of climax was damned convincing. Oliver shifted under her, trying to make room in uncomfortably tight breeches.
Constance snickered. “Liked that, did you, milord?”
The way her laugh lit her from within made him sigh. “You’re so damned beautiful. I’m afraid I’ll take one look at you without your clothes, and spill at your feet like a green lad.” Honesty was much easier when combined with laughter.
The vulnerable confession inspired another sweet smile from her. “Then you come like a green lad. I’ll take that as the compliment it is. Oliver, our time together doesn’t end when you finish. After all, you have hands and a mouth.” A thumb caressed his lower lip. Her voice turned husky. “And a tongue.”
Images raced through his mind. “I’ve never done anything with these hands or my mouth.”
Honeysuckle and her warm breath clouded his senses when she leaned in, whispering between nipping kisses, “Shall I teach you, Oliver? Would you like to learn how to give me pleasure?”
He was firmly in her thrall. A brush of fingertips on the crest of his ear made him shudder. Light kisses across his cheekbone. Innocent touches and seductive words—confounding, surprising, and arousing, like everything else about her.
“Yes. Yes, I want that,” he rasped. Oliver’s eyes fluttered closed as her mouth explored his ear and neck with feather-light touches that made his toes curl inside his boots.
“By the time we’re done, you’ll know exactly how to make me keen and beg and scream your name.”
He moaned. “Fuck, yes.”
It was at that moment the carriage slowed, and the coachman’s “whoa, lads” reached them. Oliver thumped his forehead on her shoulder, making her giggle.
“I would never wish ill on them, but I hope our friends stay away all night. Possibly all week.” That earned another laugh. Which, from his vantage point, did delightful things to her breasts.
By the time the footman opened the door, they sat on opposite sides of the coach, and he was thanking whatever fickle deity had decided the people of England would need awarm coat in June, because the garment covered his raging erection.
Inside Caro and Dorian’s cottage, Constance immediately busied herself building a fire. She was so thoroughly competent for a woman who often reminded him of a honeybee, flitting from one thing to the next.
As she went about being rather marvelous, he inspected the cottage for any signs of problems since the duke and duchess left for London.
Because, with their friends, in theory, arriving any minute, he couldn’t take Constance up on her offer to teach him how to make her beg.
Fuck, he needed to think about something else. Oliver imagined dunking himself in an ice bath and walked away from the fascinating temptation that was Constance Martin.
The cottage felt alive with color and texture, and so very different from the ducal townhome. No marble floors or silk-covered walls. Windowsills—dry, despite the weather, thank God—and doorways were painted in shades of crimson, navy, and saffron. Art from their travels adorned the walls, and woven rugs in every color of the rainbow covered the stone floor.
