Page 21 of A Delicate Deception
She leaned back against one of the walls and looked up at him with a smile that was halfway to a laugh, as if they were in on the same joke.
“Amelia,” he breathed.
She was smiling fully now, wickedly, as if she knew exactly what she wanted and intended to have it, and Sydney found that he was very, very supportive of that, even though apparently what she wanted was to seduce him behind the ruins of some kind of barn in broad daylight. He had barely enough reason left in his brain to reflect that this was not the most prudent idea he had ever had. It was secluded, and they’d hear anyone coming, but Sydney was not sure he’d object even if they were in a shop window.
There was no coyness in her demeanor, no hesitation either. She raised an eyebrow, and as if a puppet on a string, he put a palm flat on the stone wall behind her head. The wall seemed solid, at least. That was good. He had just enough time to be satisfied with his forethought when she took hold of his collar and tugged him forward.
He brought his mouth close enough that he could feel her breath on his lips. It was she who closed the gap, brushing her lips over his. He pressed in closer, then ran a hand down her side, feeling where she was trapped between his body and the wall. He deepened the kiss and she opened for him, tilting her head back as far as the wall would allow.
He kissed her some more, one hand on the hard stone wall and the other on the softness of her waist, then kissed down her neck until he reached the edge of her gown. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked into the smooth skin of her throat, mortified to discover that it came out more a desperate question than a teasing threat.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close to her, and the tug at his scalp caused all his thoughts to careen wildly off the rails. That was—not something he knew he wanted. She did it again and he heard himself make a pleading noise into the skin behind her ear. A few strands of her hair had come down from her knot, and he pushed them off her neck to clear the way for more kisses. She tilted her chin up to give him better access. Now that he had his hands on her, and her hands on him, he felt like he couldn’t get enough. He had been imagining this for longer than he cared to admit, even to himself. “What do you like?” he asked, deliriously proud of stringing those four words together.
She let out a breathy little laugh. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that I wouldn’t like.”
He skimmed a hand along her bodice, her breast soft and heavy in his hand. “This all right?” he murmured.
“Not even close,” she said, and reeled him in by the lapel for another kiss. She tasted of strawberries and sunshine, sweet and bright and lovely. He wanted to lay her down and strip her, taste every inch of her, learn every part of her. But she was panting against his mouth and he was hard in his trousers. He cupped her breast in his palm, running his thumbnail over the peak of one nipple. She groaned and—oh, God help him, she wrapped a leg around his waist. He got a hand under her hips and lifted, holding her against him so she could feel his hardness. She worked her hand under his shirt, feeling his back, his sides, as if she were trying to touch as much of him as possible. This felt precious and impossible, too good and bright and soft to be happening to him. Her fingernails dug into his skin, sharp and insistent.
“Amelia,” he said, his still untouched cock twitching in his trousers. “You’ll kill me.” He kissed her again, as if they were in a sensible place for this to be happening, as if this were a sensible decision in the first place. But the softness of her hips under his hands, the sharpness of her teeth against his lower lip—these were arguments that superseded anything like reason.
“Please,” she said. “I need more.” She looked frantically at him, gray eyes blown wide.
If Amelia needed more, he was going to give her more, whether they were on a hilltop or a rooftop or the middle of the bottomless bog itself. He found the hem of her dress and slid his hand up her calf. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes,” she said. And then, of all the damned things in the world to do at that moment, she laughed. “Sydney,” she said, “it’s not even noon. Whatever will your liege lord say?”
“He’s dead,” he said bluntly. “Tragic. What a loss.” His hand cupped the back of her knee, lifted it.
“Are you being droll? Whoever would have—”
He kissed her and could feel her smile against his own. He caressed up her thigh until he found the wet heat of her, then traced his thumb along her opening. She made a desperate noise and pressed against his hand. “Tell me how you like it,” he said.
“Inside,” she said in a choked-sounding voice. He slid two fingers into her and she buried her face in his neck, kissing the sensitive place where his throat met his beard.
He moved his thumb to stroke her clitoris and she bit his neck. “Sweetheart, so good,” he babbled as he continued to stroke her, his thoughts completely unraveled by the feel of her around his fingers, the contrast between the softness of her body and the sharpness of her teeth, her nails.
“Do that again,” she said, pushing against his hand, “and don’t stop.”
He tried to memorize every sound she made as her need ratcheted up, which touches made her breath catch and her grip tighten. Then she was biting hard on his collarbone, clenching around his fingers, and then, finally, limp in his arms. He gentled his touch, reluctant to pull away.
“That was,” she said after panting against his chest for a minute, her face buried in his coat, “a good start.” Then she moved her hands to the fall of his trousers and unfastened them. He was as hard as a pikestaff and trying his best not to think about it. “May I?” she asked.
“You may do any damned thing you wish,” he managed. “Enact any of your fantasies. Do your worst.” And that was the last sensible sentence he said, because by then she had her hand wrapped around his erection, tentatively stroking it as if it might break. “Harder,” he muttered. She increased the pressure marginally, and he was too desperate for friction to care for manners, so he wrapped his own hand around hers and showed her. “Yes,” he groaned.
“Is that good?” she asked.
“Amelia, sweetheart—” He wanted to tell her that if she kept going, she’d see how good it was in about ten seconds, but the words wouldn’t form. All he managed was a hoarse “Keep your skirts clear, I should think.” She let go, the infernal woman. “Why,” he begged. “Why?”
“I want you inside me,” she said in a tone that carried no hesitation.
For an instant all the objections presented themselves in a swirl of judgment: they were outdoors, it was the middle of the day, she could fall pregnant, she could lose her reputation, it could be a ghastly and disappointing experience. But Amelia knew those things, and she was asking for this, and they both wanted it. And he was falling in love with her. He knew he shouldn’t think about that. There were good reasons not to let his mind go to that place, and he’d remember whatever they were later.
He hoisted her up again, and she obligingly cleared her skirts away, leaving no obstacle between them. He nudged her opening with the head of his cock and she made a noise of desperation. He plunged in. She went still in his arms and he worried he had been too rough, too sudden. It had been a while—maybe he was out of practice. He held her close, not daring to move until she was ready. “So good,” he said, kissing her softly. She whimpered into his mouth. “You feel so good.” He shifted his hips and thrust tentatively into her, watching her for any sign of discomfort. But she made a sound of surprised pleasure, and then adjusted her legs around his waist, and the next thing he knew he was holding her entirely off the ground, driving into her as she whispered his name.
One of her hands was on his jaw, holding him still for a kiss, and the other drifted between them, pushing aside skirts and petticoats and touching where they joined. He pulled back with the idea of trying to watch her. He wanted to see what she was doing but an ocean of cotton and linen got in the way. He could see enough to know that she was stroking herself, and just knowing that she was doing so was enough to bring him perilously near the brink of his own climax. She shuddered again, squeezing and clenching him inside her, and with a muttered curse he eased her to the ground and gingerly pulled out of her. He took himself in hand and brought himself off in a few tugs.
“God help me,” he said, catching his breath, one hand planted on the wall near Amelia’s head. “Look at you.” She was the picture of decadence. Red, kiss-swollen lips, hair tumbled around her shoulders, hand still under her dress, skirts still rucked up around her hips. “You look mighty pleased with yourself,” he said, wiping his hand off on his handkerchief.
