Page 48 of Miss Dignified
Lydia curled herself around Dylan as if she were intent on laying siege to his self-restraint. “You cannot know, Dylan, what it means to me that you listen, that you do not stand in judgment of me.”
Who in his right mind would judge this woman, and what on earth could he judge her for? “You steal a few drops of my scent,” he said, shifting to nuzzle her breast. “Then you confess the crime. I’ll drench you in that scent if you like, Lydia.”
The urge to join, to mate, and thrust, and rush to pleasure was nigh overwhelming, but Dylan had set for himself the challenge of being a paragon of intimate consideration. Lydia had had one encounter with a lout, regardless that she refused to cast him as such. A young lady overimbibing and intent on breaking rules deserved protection, not potential ruin, and any male old enough to wear a uniform knew that.
Dylan tried a few caresses to the sides of Lydia’s breasts, and she went still. “Do you like that?”
“I hardly know. You’d best do it again so I might give the matter protracted study.”
By the time he was using both his mouth and his hands on her breasts, she was thrashing beneath him and tugging at his hair.
“You are diabolical,” she panted. “Watching you eat a tea cake will henceforth put me into a fever.”
“And I’m supposed to stand idly about while you polish my silver and change my sheets?”
“I like polishing your silver.” She’d worked a hand between their bodies and gave Dylan’s shaft a glancing caress to emphasize her words.
He let her play for a moment, though it required conjuring thoughts of cold boiled turnips and other army fare.
“Enjoying yourself, Lydia?”
“Yes, if you must know. Are you?”
And to think he’d challenged her to bringhercourage to the affray. “I am having trouble forming complete sentences. I’ll spend if you keep that up.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“The point…” Dylan mentally cast about for words that made sense, but all that came to mind was something Lydia had said earlier, about envying him the authority to give commands. “The point is whatever you want it to be, whatever would please you. Tell me what you want, Lydia. Give me my orders.”
She’d got the knack of brushing her thumb over the spot under the tip of his cock, and Dylan’s control began to unravel.
“I’ll… God in heaven, Lydia.”
“Spend. Let yourself spend.”
Her whispered imperative was superfluous, but added to Dylan’s desire. He barely managed to swipe a handkerchief from the night table before he was kneeling up, his hand around Lydia’s as he brought himself off—astheybrought him off—in a spectacular implosion of sensation and wonder.
When he’d shuddered and bucked through more satisfaction than one mortal man could bear, he crouched over Lydia, panting like a spent steeplechaser.
“Duw yn y nefoedd.”
Lydia’s hands idly winnowed through his hair. “Did you just curse at me?” She sounded pleased with the possibility.
“I prayed toGod in heavenfor strength.” An expanded translation. “I am slain.”
“You followed orders.”
“I am in bed with a fiend. A darling, daring fiend. Let me hold you.”
Lydia was apparently willing to be held, because when Dylan spooned himself around her, she took his hand and tucked his arm about her waist.
“I’ve never done that before.” She faced away from him, though Dylan could hear bewilderment in her voice.
“I don’t make a habit of it either.”
She sent him a curious look over her shoulder.
“I pleasure myself regularly,” Dylan said, “but if I am fortunate enough to share a bed with a willing partner, I generally don’t… That is…”
