Page 26 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“Mr. Cleland,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
“The pleasure was mine, I assure you.” With that, he turned and strode from the room.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, then his low voice as he retrieved his hat from the servant in the foyer. The front door opened and closed.
He was gone.
“The artwork has been educational,” Sarah said, looking at the three gaping people. “But, aside fromMr. Cleland, the company has been juvenile.” With that, she turned and walked away.
As she made her way down the stairs, she thought of what Mr. Cleland had done. That defense of her . . . no one had ever given her the same honor.
Yet . . . had she pushed him too far? Was he utterly disgusted by her? Dear God, she hoped not.
She wished she would see him once more. It would be for the best if they never crossed paths again. Yet her mind and body couldn’t be dissuaded.
Lord help her, but she was in deep, deep lust with a vicar.
The fast walk home did nothing to calm Jeremy. His cock remained a thick, insistent presence in his breeches. Walking with an erection as big as a tree wasn’t an experience he longed to repeat, but he needed to find some way to calm himself, and a hired carriage ride back wouldn’t help.
He practically ran. Yet when he reached home, he felt no more at ease than when he’d been with Lady Sarah at the gallery. Once inside, he nearly threw his hat at the waiting footman, then took the stairs two at a time to reach his room.
Having confirmed that his chamber was empty of servants, he quickly locked the door behind him. He staggered to the bed and gripped one of the posts. With his other hand, he groped for the buttons of his breeches.
He groaned aloud when he grasped his cock. Had he ever been this hard, this demanding? Had he ever been as tempted as he’d been at the gallery? He’d wantedto pull Lady Sarah into a waiting closet, gather up her skirts, and thrust himself into her as she bit his shoulder to quiet her moans.
Jeremy stroked himself. God, to do the things to her that were shown in those paintings! To open her bodice and take those soft, silken breasts in his hands, play upon her nipples—were they pale or dark? Or to fuck her outside, in the sunshine, beneath the branches of a sheltering tree. She would be luminous in the sunlight, partially dressed, hot and responsive as he sank deep into her sweet, tight depths.
Or to have him sit upon the floor, as in that Indian statue, and she would mount him, ride him . . .
With only a few hard strokes of his cock, Jeremy’s release tore through him. He clenched his teeth to keep from shouting. He bowed with the force of it.
For a moment, he could only stand on shaking legs. Rousing himself, he cleaned up and tucked his now sated penis back into his breeches. It might be satisfied, but Jeremy wasn’t.
He staggered to a chair next to the fireplace and sank into it. Resting his head in his hand, he cursed himself. Oh, he pleasured himself quite often. He couldn’t survive unless he did. But always he constructed fantasies with faceless women, careful to never call to mind anyone he knew. Never before had he pictured one woman in particular, thought of all the wicked, depraved things he wanted to do with her.
It felt wrong, so very wrong, to invoke Sarah like that. To use her in that way. But, God preserve him, he couldn’t help himself.
When it came to Lady Sarah, he was utterly lost.
Chapter 8
When we had at last exhausted ourselves, we sat quietly, holding each other.
“Do you often make a habit of seducing the men who seek to rob you?” he asked me.
“Do you often make love to the women you steal from?” I returned.
He grinned. “Never.”
“This is a novel experience for me, as well.”
“Perhaps we might see one another again,” he offered.
“A dangerous game.”
“Ma’am, I am not afraid of danger.”
Ah! He was too delicious, as dark and wicked as Mordred, and I unable to resist his roguish charms.
