Page 9 of A Touch Wicked
“I am,” he said. “Far too formal. I’m beginning to appreciate the French.”
She laughed again, and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, his cheek, his neck, his lips. “Well, I have a better question,” she whispered, kissing the shell of his ear. It surprised James when she wrapped her fingers around his wrists and brought his arms over his head. Stretched out beneath her. At her mercy. Then her voice, a purr in his ear: “How about I fuckyou?”
James had barely managed a response before she shifted her hips and sank down on his cock.
“Yes.”
She felt better than he imagined. Warm and slick and tight — so tight. And when she moved . . . it was beautiful and graceful, without a hint of doubt or shyness. Her hips rolled with the confidence and elegance of a dancer; the lines of her form were exquisite in motion. And when she released his wrists, her lithe body arched toward him like a strung bow.
Unable to resist, James settled his hands on her hips and guided her movement. Their bodies moved together as if in dance, their sighs as if in song. James loved the sounds she made, the way her breathing grew uneven when he lifted his head to suck one of her nipples. He slid a hand between their bodies and found her clitoris. One stroke and she shuddered above him.
“Better than I imagined,” she said with a gasp. “So, so much better.”
That made him smile. “What did you imagine? A boring Englishman?”
“No, not boring.” She pressed a kiss to his lips and breathed something he wasn’t sure he understood: “Never boring.” Then she dropped her head to nip at his throat like before. Just as firmly, enough to leave a mark. That small hint of pain mixed with pleasure while she fucked him almost brought him over the edge. “I love how you feel inside me,” she whispered against his pulse, breath shuddering again. “I’m so close.”
James circled her clitoris again and again as she rolled her hips. He was almost there himself, but he wanted her to finish. He wanted to watch her take her pleasure.
“Take it,” he told her.“Take it all, sweetheart.”
She cried out as she came, her fingernails scraping the skin at his shoulder. Her quim clenched around him, but it was the bite of her fingernails breaking through skin that unexpectedly brought him over. James lifted her off him to spill into his cupped palm. He came so hard, he thought he saw stars.
God.
James bowed his head, his breath beginning to slow.My god.
His lovers had all spoken highly of his prowess in the bedchamber. James had prided himself at how methodical he was in every aspect of lovemaking.
But he realized just now that he had never — not once — yielded to a woman.
It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but an inclination to be as in control during sex as in every aspect of his life. This woman, in one night, had upended it. Had upendedhim.
And he wanted her again.
Chapter 6
“Here,” Emma said, sitting beside him. She took a cloth out of the provided washbasin on the bedside table. “Let me.”
Let me. She had said that before when she unbuttoned him. Now she used the cloth to wipe down his hands, his cock. Then she dipped it into the water again and cleaned the tender skin between her own legs.Let me. Even here, while pretending to be someone else, she couldn’t help but say things the way a servant would.
James glanced at her, and Emma knew he had noticed.
“I’ve never known anyone more attentive.” James said. “Are you someone’s mistress?”
Emma dropped the cloth into the washbasin. Her limbs still trembled from their fierce lovemaking, but her joy dampened at his words. James didn’t know who she was; she had deceived him.
And god help her, she wanted to do it again.
She turned away sharply. “No. I’ve never been any man’s mistress. I’m surprised that was the first conclusion you came to.”
“My apologies. You’re married, then?”
Polite conversation, it sounded like, but his vivid blue eyes were sharp when he looked at her. With clothes on, Emma might have felt less vulnerable, but she was naked and wondered if he could see through her lies. If they shone in her gaze. If her performance as some wanton siren had dropped away and left behind Emma. Simply Emma. The woman he treated as politely as his sister.
“I thought it didn’t matter who I was,” she replied. “Is that not why we wear masks, sir?”
James stared at her, and for a moment she wondered if he would do something irrational. Remove his mask — or, perhaps, ask her name.
