Page 56 of Tremaine's True Love
He left off tormenting Nita’s breasts and loomed over her, his dark hair in considerable disarray.
‘For an hourstraight?”
Straight, as in the hard column of flesh pressing against Nita’s hip. She wiggled a hand free of his grip and shifted, so she had room enough to grasp him. His shaft was surprisingly warm and, from what she could recall, of considerably more generous proportions than what Norton had been so proud of.
“You are the boldest lady I’ve ever met.” His tone said he approved of her boldness.
Nita traced the contours of his arousal, from the thatch of down at the base, along the shaft, to the peculiar configuration of the business end.
“Why are you holding your breath, sir?”
He spoke through his teeth. “I’m trying not to spend, you lemon-scented witch.”
“I thought spending was the part men liked best.” Norton certainly had. All three times, he’d assured Nita he wouldn’t, and then… Had he thought she’d not grasped why her handkerchief had been needed while he’d done up his falls?
Mr. St—Tremaine nuzzled Nita’s throat. “I’ll show you the part this man likes best—with your permission.” Nita let him go, because the time for teasing and giggling had passed. Maybe it had passed years ago, and she’d been too busy delivering babies and brewing tisanes to notice.
“Show me, then,” she said, giving him permission to become her lover.
But not her husband—not yet
* * *
Tremaine enthusiastically immersed himself in the pleasures of trading in art, Holland bulbs, Italian wines, wool, and livestock. The pleasures of the flesh—when they intruded upon his immediate notice—usually struck him as a needlessly complicated road to comparable satisfaction.
He’d traveled that road many a time nonetheless.
Wooing Lady Nita was complicated indeed, involving pursuit of her intimate favors, appreciation for her tireless mind, and enticement of her trust.
What perplexed Tremaine, as he arranged himself over his intended, was how all that effort added up tofun.“How long has it been since anybody tickled you, my lady?”
“Your chest hair might be said to be tickling me at this very moment.”
Or Nita’s nipplesmight be saidto be tickling Tremaine’s sanity. He kissed her, because his conversational gambit had led straight to folly. She was a fine kisser, having the ability to make a discussion out of what some turned into an excuse for oral aggression.
“You taste sweet,” he said. “One wonders…” How would Nita’s intimate parts taste? She’d probably allow him to find out, eventually. Maybe on their wedding night.
“You taste like mint and male.” She framed his face with soft hands and kissed his brow. “Your hair bears the scent of heather.”
Tremaine hoped he tasted like a husband. Nita hadn’t capitulated yet though, not entirely, and that was only fair. When a woman surrendered control of her entire future, a man ought to work for the privilege of becoming her spouse.
“Nita, love, we cannot risk a child.”
Her hands went still, and the minute undulations of her hips—when had she started that torment?—ceased.
“I haven’t vinegar and sponges,” she said. “Had not known I might ever need them.”
While Tremaine’s nearest sheath was in Oxfordshire. He cursed in Gaelic, a language Nita was unlikely to know.
“Do you trust me?” he asked. Her answer mattered, and not simply because the urge to mate had ambushed Tremaine with a ferocity that characterized healthy animals in spring. “The Latin term iscoitus interruptus, and while it’s a distant second to the pleasure you’re owed, it will minimize the prospect of a child.”
And this approach might allow Tremaine to survive the next hour.
Nita brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You put a choice before me: an assured moment’s pleasure, but at the risk of a lifetime of obligation to you.”
At least Nita trusted him to provide that moment’s pleasure. To give himself time to think, Tremaine indulged in another spree of kissing, which plan backfired horrendously.
When Nita let him up for air, he was crouched over his lady, though his wits had also decamped for Oxfordshire.
