Chapter 11
Desmond took possession of her mouth. His lips were firm but soft, coaxing, commanding, drinking deeply when she opened for him. His tongue swept into her mouth, stroking against hers with unashamed carnality.
This, she realized, was the kiss of a man who knew how to pleasure someone. Not just someone. Her. He wanted her.
She clung to him, digging her fingers into the rigid muscles of his shoulders, holding tightly when she was certain that her legs would give out beneath her.
His kiss stroked through every part of her body. Not merely her mouth, but over all of her skin, her flesh coming alive. Her breasts grew heavy and sensitive, and between her legs, she went hot and slick. She didn’t know she could grow wet from only a kiss, yet she liquified in Desmond’s arms.
Clara pressed her body urgently to his, needing…needing…
Suddenly, his hands were on her arse, grabbing her, lifting her up until she sat on the potting bench.
Her thighs opened at once for him, and he positioned himself between them.
Even through the layers of her petticoats, she felt him, pressing tight into the place between her legs.
The pressure of him was delicious, stoking her fire, and she moaned into his mouth as he rocked against her.
Both of his hands cradled her jaw. He continued to kiss her deeply, as if content to do just this. Yet she needed more.
Her fingers scrabbled at the buttons of his waistcoat. He laughed into her mouth.
“Ravenous minx.”
“I have been starving for a very long time. My whole life.”
“I’m just as hungry for you.”
His mouth skimmed past the scroll of her ear, trailing down her throat. He tugged away her fichu and let it drift to the ground. Then his lips were hot on her collarbones and across her upper chest.
She writhed against him.
His fingers went to the hooks along the side of her bodice. He had large hands, but he was remarkably deft at unfastening her. She decided to be glad that he had so much experience stripping women.
She was especially glad when he peeled her bodice open to reveal her shift beneath.
“No stays?” His voice was thick, as though he was drugged.
“I stopped wearing them years ago. I was always alone, so there seemed little point.”
“Thank fuck for solitude.” And then his hand cupped one of her breasts through the lawn of her shift, while his mouth fastened on the hard tip of her other breast.
The warmth of the glasshouse pressed down on her, dampening her skin, and yet the heat of his skin and mouth scorched her even more.
She clutched the back of his head, pressing him closer as she arched into his touch, his mouth.
Desmond’s hand covered her breast to stroke and caress.
With firm gentleness, he pinched her nipple.
At the same time, he mouthed her other breast through her shift, soaking through the thin fabric and taking her other nipple between his lips.
She cried out as heat coursed along her body and centered between her legs.
But then he stopped, his face against her chest, and she made a sound of protest.
“I need you to tell me that you want this,” he growled.
“Can you doubt it?”
His nostrils flared, almost as if he was scenting her. “I know what your body tells me. But if this is to happen, give me the words. If you want me to fuck you, you’ve got to say so.”
“I…” Her already flaming cheeks seemed to glow.
“The words. If this is what you need, say, Fuck me, Des.”
She pressed her face against the crown of his head. “Arthur hated when I used language like that. He said…he said I was a disgraceful, unnatural wanton, and I shamed both of us to speak of my desire.”
“If Arthur isn’t in hell now,” Desmond snarled, his breath hot between her breasts, “I’ll journey to the afterlife and drag him there.”
“I don’t know…”
Desmond pulled back so he could look at her, and his eyes were blue fire. “What you want, what you feel…these things…they’re natural. Healthy, even. Nothing’s shameful about having desires. Nothing wrong to talk about them. It’s his shame, for making you feel guilty when there’s no cause to.”
He reached up and brushed his fingers over her cheek, and they came away shining and wet.
“Oh.” She wiped her face, furious with herself. Here she was, being enthusiastically ravished by an achingly handsome man, a man who desired her, and she was weeping.
But she wouldn’t give in to fear, or self-recrimination. This was for her, and all the lonely years she’d spent as an unwanted wife aching for companionship, and a forlorn widow who knew only the pleasure of her own touch.
The words in her forbidden books…how they spoke in them…words she’d always wanted to say, but had never possessed the courage to do so. The one time with Arthur that she’d tried, he’d looked so appalled, she’d hadn’t dared to attempt it again.
Yet Desmond wasn’t Arthur. He’d proven that.
“Fuck me, Des,” she said.
She cradled his head and brought his mouth to hers. They kissed deeply, hungrily. With each stroke of her tongue against his, she released more of herself, freed from the bonds of her shame. She reveled in this moment, this pleasure. This man.
He growled into her mouth, approving, as his hand continued to caress her breasts. Only when heavy, warm air touched the tops of her thighs did she realize that he’d used his other hand to gather up her skirts. He skimmed over the flesh above her garters and then went higher.
She gasped as his fingers stroked between her legs, a light but purposeful exploration. He glided over the dense curls on her mound before going lower to dip between her lips.
“Yes?” His voice was thick.
“Yes,” she panted. Then she cried out once more as he delved farther into her, tracing and stroking her slick flesh.
His thumb found her clitoris and circled it. She bowed back as sensation poured through her. He touched her deftly, rousing pleasure in tight, deliberate caresses before thrusting two fingers into her passage.
“Ah, God.” She moaned as she stretched around him.
Deep within her, he found a swollen spot, and his fingers stroked over it, again and again. Pleasure built higher, making her taut and aching and needy. She spread her thighs as wide as she could to give him unfettered access to her body.
“This,” he snarled into her mouth. “This is what you’ve been needing.”
“Yes, Des, yes.” The words were only gasps as she climbed higher. And then, she broke, the climax tumbling over her in all-consuming waves of fire.
He tore his mouth from hers, yet before she could protest, he was kneeling between her legs.
He kept one hand deep within her, while the other gripped her thigh with almost bruising force.
His gaze was fixed on her sex, his eyes bright, his jaw hard as iron, and the way he looked at her…
as though she was the profane answer to every question he’d ever asked…
“This beautiful cunt.” Des lowered his head.
“Wait, wait,” she panted.
He stopped at once. “Stop?”
“No, only…” She swallowed. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had this.”
“Never?” The desire in his eyes turned to fury. “That fucking husband of yours.”
“Is there something I ought to do while you’re…?” Shyly, she tipped her head down, toward her waiting sex.
“All you need to do, sparrow, is enjoy it.”
Filigrees of gratification unspooled inside of her. She’d never had a term of endearment before.
“And,” he added, “if you don’t like what I do, you stop me. Understand? This is for you.”
“I understand.” She threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging him down. “If you don’t mind…”
He gave a dark chuckle, but then his humor disappeared, and he was all purpose and desire as he lowered his head.
The moment his mouth found her sex, she was lost. He ate at her, lapping and licking and sucking and nibbling.
Consuming her. Adoring her. He was a voracious beast as his tongue swirled over her clitoris, and his lips learned her secret topography.
All the while, he continued to thrust his fingers in and out of her, fucking her with relentless intent.
The clay pots rattled and tumbled to the ground to roll in every direction.
Stop him? She would beg on her knees to have him do this to her for all eternity.
“Touch your breasts,” he commanded between licks. “Your nipples—pinch them.”
She did as he directed, touching herself with the skill that came from many years of learning what she liked best. Thumbing and squeezing her nipples, pleasure shot from them to her cunt.
With a sharp cry, she came. Her body arched and it was all she could do to keep from flying off the potting bench.
Yet he held her in place, supporting her as he took her through one climax to the next, and another.
He was unyielding in his purpose to pleasure her.
Nothing, it seemed, gratified him more than her ecstasy.
“Please,” she gasped.
He lifted his head, his face glossed with her arousal. “Stop?”
“More.” Boneless, graceless, she tried to pull him up.
He rose, and she fumbled with the fall of his breeches. As she tried to undo the buttons, her fingers brushed against the heavy, curved length of him, and she stilled.
“You’re very” she gulped “sizable.”
“Don’t worry, sparrow.” His smile flashed, more wicked than playful. “You can take me.”
“I’ll have to trust you in this.” She had to trust him in nearly everything.
Together, they undid his breeches, his hands much faster than hers. The buckskin parted and he pulled himself free.
“Now I’m truly going to have to trust you,” she gulped, finally seeing his considerable proportions. That he could fit inside her seemed nearly impossible.
His cock was thick and veined, the head round and dark. A gleam of fluid pearled at the slit. She had minimal experience with men’s bodies, even less with their cocks, but to her eyes, Des’s cock was stunning. Crude and beautiful at the same time.
Tentatively, she reached out, then pulled her hand back.
“Yes, love,” he rumbled. “Touch me.”