Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Somewhere we can finish this.
This was precisely the sort of statement that Rosalie should find alarming. It was bad enough that she and Lucian had begun; finishing whatever this was would likely leave her completely and irrevocably ruined.
It will be worth it.
Lucian led her to the far reaches of the garden. It was deserted, with no sign of Lord Pritchard, thank God, nor any other couples looking for a place to tryst. They passed beneath arbors bearing fragrant climbing roses, eventually coming to a stone bench nestled against a brick wall.
Lucian sat and pulled her into his lap. He kissed her again, and her nervousness melted away as her body began to pleasantly thrum once again.
But too soon, he lifted his head. “Is this all right?”
He squeezed her torso gently by way of explanation. Rosalie realized that his hands had strayed mere inches from her breasts.
She swallowed. Did she want him to touch her there? She realized that she did. This seemed like a rare opportunity to be with a man capable of making her feel so much.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He studied her a beat. “And if I wanted to open up your dress so I could see you in the moonlight?”
“I can’t get pregnant!” Rosalie’s face went hot in the cool night air as she realized what words had come blurting from her mouth. How had she managed to sound overly forward and embarrassingly inexperienced at the same time?
But instead of sneering at her, Lucian’s eyes flared with understanding. “But you want me to touch you? You’ll let me make you feel good?”
Rosalie squeezed her eyes shut. “I… yes.”
She felt his lips trail across her forehead, then down her temple. His breath was hot against her ear. “You won’t regret it,” he murmured, his voice dark as midnight.
She felt his lips on her jaw, her neck, as his hands slid up her body.
It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like an agonizing eternity as Rosalie waited with bated breath for him to reach her peaked nipples, which were desperate for his touch.
She gasped when his thumbs brushed her there, gasped and swayed, and had to grab onto his shoulders to stop herself from swooning.
He growled his approval and withdrew his hands. Rosalie cried out her frustration, only to realize that his fingers were flying over the ties of her gown. It sagged open, and she felt a rush of cool air against her tender flesh.
“Rosalie.” His voice was rich with appreciation as he reached in and lifted her breasts out of the cups of her stays.
His hands were surprisingly warm, and the contrast with the chill of the air felt delicious.
She glanced down, wondering how she must look to him.
As a redhead, her skin was always pale, but this place that the sun never touched looked almost translucent in the moonlight.
His hands looked startlingly powerful against her delicate skin, but he touched her so gently—reverently, even—that she forgot to feel nervous.
He stroked a thumb across a nipple, and she shivered. “You’re so beautiful. You must allow me to kiss you here.”
“Kiss?” she asked. Did he truly mean to—
But he was already laying her back on the bench. He pressed kisses across her collarbone, then across the upper swell of her breast, and then… and then…
Rosalie’s hips jerked upward as his lips closed over her nipple. It was like lightning coursing through her body, if lightning were pleasurable. It felt wonderful, but it was almost too much.
She buried her fingers in his glossy black hair as he moved to her other breast. She couldn’t hold still, couldn’t seem to stop squirming on the bench. There was too much pent-up pleasure coursing through her body with nowhere to go.
He shifted his weight above her, inserting a knee between her legs, which she didn’t understand but… Oh. Oh! Slowly, she rocked her hips back and forth against him. There was a spot at the juncture of her thighs, and when it brushed against his leg, it felt… It felt so very…
Lucian had stopped his ministrations to her breast and was smiling down at her. “That’s it, Rosalie. Have you come before?”
Rosale peered up at him in confusion. “Have I what?”
His smile was tender. “Let me show you.”
He slid off the bench and began drawing up her skirts. “Already soaked for me. I can’t believe how responsive you are.” He sank to his knees at the foot of the bench, pressing her thighs open.
Rosalie lay back in a daze, allowing him to do it. She wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but she felt certain that she would die if he were to stop.
He pressed a kiss against the inside of her thigh. “I’m going to use my mouth on you. I want your first time to be beautiful.”
“Your… mouth?” she asked weakly. He was bringing his face toward her most intimate parts. Surely, he didn’t mean to… to…
Apparently, he did, because the next thing she knew, he was kissing her, licking her, even, right between her legs! For an instant, she was too stunned to protest. But then, but then…
How had she not known that such pleasure could exist? It was more potent than brandy, more intense than the Italian sun. It filled her, consumed her, scorched her from within.
On the stone bench, her thighs began to tremble, but Rosalie was too far gone to wonder what that meant. Suddenly, the pleasure not only filled her, but stretched her until she felt like she might burst from it. It was too much, too good, it had nowhere to go and… and… and…
Much to her surprise, she did burst. At least, she felt like she did.
Suddenly, her thighs were quaking violently, that place between her legs was pulsing, and she could hear herself babbling nonsense as she clutched Lucian’s head.
She didn’t have the wherewithal to feel embarrassed.
The only thing she knew was the beautiful sensations pulsing through her body.
The next thing she knew, Lucian was pulling her, boneless, off the bench and down into his lap. He cradled her against his chest.
She felt him smile against her temple. “I can feel your heart racing.”
“What did you do to me?” She sounded dazed, almost drunk, to her own ears.
He chuckled. “It’s called a climax. Did you like it?”
She lifted her head from his shoulder so she could squint at him incredulously. “Did I like it?” She waved a hand, struggling to explain. “I like blancmange. I like reading The Lady’s Magazine. ‘Like’ is entirely the wrong verb to describe how I feel about what you just did to me.”
He smirked, and the words he uttered were, “I told you so.”
And she laughed, because even though it probably wasn’t what he should have said, it was perfectly Lucian. And she somehow knew that, even after such a short acquaintance.
“I would not doubt you,” she said. “At least, when it comes to this.”
“Ah, yes. The one area where I’m useful.”
He had made the remark in his characteristic flippant tone, but something about his delivery made Rosalie suspect that she had touched a nerve. “I didn’t say that,” she said quickly. “Nor do I think it.”
He arched an eyebrow laconically. “Name one other thing that I’m good at.”
“In addition to your facility for dispatching aggressive suitors, you have an extremely sharp wit,” Rosalie said honestly. “I suspect that you would be good at almost anything you put your mind to.”
From her vantage point in his lap, she felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He brushed a kiss against her temple, then muttered, “Absolutely everyone would disagree with you.”
“Thank goodness. You know how little regard I have for the opinions of just about every member of the ton.”
He laughed then, a genuine sound. “And yet, you hold me in some regard. Who’s the foolish one now?”
“Oh, I know you’re a scoundrel, and you’re only interested in me for one thing.”
“Am I?” he grumbled.
She waved a hand. “Don’t worry—I promise not to get my hopes up.” Rosalie bit her lip. From her vantage point in his lap, she could feel the evidence that he was yet to get what he came for pressing against her hip.
She gathered her courage. “Speaking of the reason you’re here, you’re going to have to tell me what to do.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “What do you mean, I’m going to have to tell you what to do?”
Rosalie’s cheeks flushed, but she forced herself to say, “In case it was not abundantly clear, I have never done this before. If I am to bring you to…er, satisfaction, then I will require some instruction.”
He stared at her. “You mean to bring me to satisfaction?”
The way he said it was curiously blank. Was he mocking her? Was he disinterested? Or had she stunned him speechless? Surely not the latter. This was Lucian Deverell, the devil himself! Nothing she could say could have the power to surprise him.
She made to rise from his lap. “Well, I was intending to try, but if you are disinterested—”
Strong hands clamped about her waist, pulling her back down. “I never said I was disinterested,” he growled. “Your first lesson is that this”—he thrust his hips forward, pressing his swollen man-part against her hip—“means that I am extremely interested.”
“I see. I suspected as much,” Rosalie added hastily.
Lucian brought a hand up to palm her breast, which was still exposed. “Then you have some idea what’s about to happen?”
“In a scientific sense only,” she explained. “I know that the act culminates in the man releasing his seed, which would go inside me if we were going to, er…” She cleared her throat. “But we’re not.”
“We’re not,” he agreed. “But never fear, there are plenty of other things we can do that will be very, very enjoyable for me.”
“Good.” Rosalie nodded, as if to convince herself. “Good. Er—how shall we proceed?”
Lucian lifted her from his lap. “Let’s start by getting off the ground.”
He settled her on the bench, then stood himself. He did not take her into his arms, as she had thought he might do, but sat facing her, leaning back and propping himself up with his arms.