Page 93 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Like a cat who’d landed the cream, Helia burrowed into the letters that made a small, ineffective blanket under her, and slept.
Wingrave remained on his knees between her legs and stared up at her.
Of all the times to develop a fucking conscience.
He drew her skirts gently back into place—both to keep her limbs warm from the chill of the room and to save himself from the suffering of staring at her glorious cunny.
It didn’t help.
Wingrave clenched his eyes tight and wrestled for control of this all-powerful hungering.
I’m not a goddamned shad-bag who can’t control his baser urges.
Of course, with this insatiable lust, one would never know it.
His shaft pulsed and throbbed with a desperate hungering for a release of his own. Having coaxed Helia’s untried body to her first orgasms, however, proved too much for even his worldly experience.
Neither wanting to wake her from her rest or ask her to tug him off, Wingrave reached for his rock-hard length.
Never once taking his gaze from Helia’s delicate, freckled features, he freed himself.
Then, closing his eyes, he saw her as she’d been just moments ago, both shy and yet also possessed of a glorious lack of inhibition.
Wingrave gripped the edge of the desk in one hand and took his cock in the other and began to pump his shaft.
Gritting his teeth, he moved from base to tip.
All the while he saw Helia in her exquisite gloriousness as she’d eagerly lifted her hips in search of surrender. Using his thumb, Wingrave applied a light pressure to the underside of his cock.
His breathing grew harsh and harder.
He squeezed as he stroked himself, giving his base extra attention.
Only, the steamy words he’d drawn from her lips were not the ones he recalled as he pleasured himself. Instead, her soft, lilting voice while she’d tried to put her feelings to words whispered around his mind.
Like that feeling on the warmest, clearest summer day ... where you lie upon the highest peak of the greenest hill and stare up at the clouds as they float past. Only, this with you ... it is like ... I’m one of those clouds drifting past ...
At the back of his ballocks, pressure built.
Wingrave fumbled his spare hand about for his jacket.
He snatched the kerchief just in time.
Wingrave stiffened and then came in an exquisitely fierce orgasm. He groaned and continued to pump his shaft, until he’d emptied himself of every last drop of come.
Spent, he collapsed forward. His head collided with Helia’s legs. She stirred but remained sleeping.
It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough.
His breath settled into an even pattern and he cringed. Good God, he’d just brought himself off while she lay sleeping on his mother’s desk. Apparently, Wingrave was more depraved than he’d ever credited himself with being. He, of all men, possessed a moral sense.
With a disgusted grimace, Wingrave dropped the soiled kerchief still clutched in his fingers.
He stood, then carefully lifted Helia in his arms. She immediately curled against him like the cat he’d sooner chop his tongue off than admit he enjoyed petting.
Wingrave carried Helia to a nearby pale-green-and-pink silk brocade sofa.
He lay her down ... and only so that she did not roll off the makeshift bed, Wingrave lay beside her ... and soon, he joined Helia in sleep.
