Page 80 of Enticing Odds
“Very well. Tell me—”
“Remove your chemise, the sleeves…”
Sitting up, she was able to gracefully shed the top of her gown, to shimmy out of her chemise so that both bunched up about her slim waist.
It was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d never dared to admit to himself he wanted.
He pushed down his drawers and withdrew his prick. As he took himself in hand, he shut his eyes, begging himself to hold on, to manage a few moments of his most lurid fantasy before he lost control and finished all over Lady Caplin’s—Cressida’s—beautiful breasts.
He shifted further up, then lowered himself. When his cock brushed against her soft skin, he moaned a curse.
Suddenly her eyes widened, realization dawning on her.
“Oh, Doctor,” she teased. “You’ve a terribly filthy mind.”
Matthew stared into her eyes in wordless agreement.
“Here,” she begged, “let me help.” She dipped her head, taking just the tip of his cock into her mouth, before pulling back with a frown. “That’s not quite enough, is it?”
And then she spat on him. Reached up to slide the saliva up and down his shaft. Took the head once more into her mouth.
She spat again.
The elegant, dignified Viscountess Caplin.
Lust clouded his mind. Matthew forgot about Charles Sharples and his blackmail. He forgot about his own small, middle-class life in Marylebone, with its steady stream of patients during the day, followed by evenings spent alone; he forgot the Transom Club and its middling fare and contentious conversation.
All he could think of was the woman below him, and her exquisite breasts that she was now squeezing together.
His cock now slick with her saliva, Matthew pushed forward, sliding into the tight press of that spectacularly erotic space between her breasts.
“Cressida, fuck,” he growled.
He pulled back, then thrust again. Stars dotted his vision, his body tightening beyond anything he’d ever felt before.
Matthew managed only a few more repetitions before his body uncoiled in a wonderful burst of pleasure, and he came all over her warm, slippery tits.
Knees aching from the hard floor, heart banging heavily against his ribcage, Matthew collapsed atop her, gingerly so he wouldn’t crush her petite form. She smelled dainty and floral, but also musky and heady, just as she’d tasted.
He dug his hands into her thick hair, which had worked itself free of its pins, and squeezed two fistfuls of it. He loved her. By god, he loved her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Her chest was wetand sticky. Well. There was nothing to be done about that at the moment. She’d gone from the height of ecstasy to whatever this feeling was—of safety and warmth, of never wanting to leave the floor, or the gentle strength of his embrace.
The next morning her limbs would be stiff and sore, on account of her having been ravished upon the tiled conservatory floor.
But that would be the least of her hurts by then.
Slowly Cressida disentangled herself from Matthew’s hold and sat up.
He shifted, and she was conscious of his gaze, as she did her best to don her chemise and put her tea-gown back to rights. The linen stuck to her chest, but she did not care. It would wash away.
But now her heart was racing, her limbs heavy.
He’d called her Cressida. Who had last done that?
She had no true friends, no true confidant. If she were to hold the gilt jeweled mirror up to herself, it would no doubt show hera sad, empty life. Full of commitments and glamor, sparkling conversation and expertly wrought gowns. But the only people in her life who truly cared for her were her sons, and they would soon be sequestered away at school again. And Arthur had just embarked upon his own burgeoning adult life.
