Chapter 50
DRASKO
She parted her lips for him so willingly that Drasko knew the moment he kissed her it would be the other way around.
She would wreck him. It was only a matter of time. Days, perhaps, or mere minutes.
Minutes, yes, because as soon as he pulled her against him, she quickly straddled his lap, as if she’d done it before, as if the expensive dress crumpling over his lap didn’t matter.
He was already losing his mind to her, to her scent that raced into his nostrils, the messy kiss and their lips greedily fusing together.
Her fluttery breaths against his lips when she protested, “My dress,” though she was the one who’d straddled him, disregarding the delicate feathers coming apart at the seams. Her, “Drasko,” when his hands fought her skirts to find their way under them, to her legs clad in stockings, then higher, where he found her bare skin and gripped her thighs, hoisting her closer to him.
He wanted to fuck away every tortured second of being unable to touch her. It had been too long. He’d only had one night with her. Two—two per month—that was the agreement.
Fuck agreements! He would fuck her into next week.
Whisky’s bitterness and champagne’s sweetness mixed on their lips. Low moans, soft mouths, rough touches—he couldn’t hold back.
Everything was too much and too intense.
The hunger with which Grace kissed him as he fought his belt and the buttons of his trousers.
The desire that spiked in him when her hand touched his privates, if only through the fabric.
Her gasps when he yanked at the feathers, trying to find his way to her breasts.
Her whimpers when he did, unveiling more and more of her bare skin, tearing the garments at the seams.
She moaned when his other hand snuck under her skirt again, fought through the silk ruffle of her undergarments, and his fingers found their way into her soaking wet warmth.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He wanted more. More of her. More of them touching each other. Less of the annoying feathers that obstructed his access to her. He tried to maneuver among them, all that bird nonsense that hid her body.
She panted. He grunted. She moaned. He kissed her harder.
“I want my night,” he muttered as her fingers unbuttoned his vest, though he wanted them where his undergarments were about to be ripped by his erection. “Turns out, I am not such a patient man. Not with you, Grace.”
A grunt escaped him, then a quiet curse.
He tried to find more of her hot flesh beneath her undergarments, then gave up and ripped the fabric apart.
“There,” he said impatiently.
He just needed enough of her bare to get inside her.
But no, no, no, he could not do it in a hurry. He wanted her to crave this, so much that she abandoned this nonsense about two nights per month that he, in fact, had come up with. He should have said every week. Should have said twice a week. That would make the wait bearable.
Her closeness right now was anything but.
Drasko thought he was an expert in bed. But she—she was weaving her woman’s charms on him with her innocent whispers and hurried touches. Her hands so unskilled in the art of pleasing were lighting his every cell, leaving a trail of little fires in their wake as they trailed down his body.
One little moan of hers made his hardness twitch in anticipation.
One little whisper, an absent, “Yes,” to his touch sent his heartbeat racing.
One touch—just a brush of her fingers against his bare cock—would be the death of him. Good thing her lips hadn’t touched it yet, for he would perish in ecstasy.
Dammit!
He was kissing and touching his wife, meanwhile falling apart like an adolescent boy at the first sight of a naked woman.
“Up,” he ordered and hoisted her off him, then sank onto the floor between her legs.
He yanked her to the edge of the seat, pushed her legs open and her skirt up.
And there she was, his wife and all her charms right in front of him, peeking from behind the ripped undergarments.
She tried to close her legs, but he kept them apart.
“There.” He took her hand and brought it to the junction between her thighs. “Show me how you touch yourself.”
“I don’t,” she panted, her bewildered gaze on him.
She was so undone and beautiful. The top of her dress was pushed down, exposing her breasts. Her pink feathers gathered around her thighs, her long legs clad in stockings open for him.
She looked like a woman seduced by her lover—a sight that made Drasko grunt with want.
“Liar.” With a smile, he pushed her legs open wider. “Do it. Slowly. Touch yourself for me, and I’ll watch.”
He leaned over and kissed her, coaxing the bravery out of her, until he felt her hand move. He sat back on his heels and watched as she pleasured herself, first timidly, with a look of utmost shame on her face, though her eyes were blazing.
“Did you think of our night together when you did it alone?” His eyes were on her hand moving in slow delicious strokes. He pushed his trousers down, freeing himself, and fisted his erection.
Grace was quiet, for the first time openly studying his manhood as he leisurely stroked himself.
“Darling? I need an answer.”
“Yes,” she exhaled, not looking up, breathing heavily as her eyes bore into his hand wrapped around his hardness.
He covered her hand with his, for a short while following her movements, then gently pushed her hand away and replaced it with his.
He stroked himself. His other hand stroked her.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “So beautiful.”
He leaned over. His lips replaced his fingers.
She threw her head back and whimpered, swaying just a little, letting herself be pleasured.
She moaned loudly as his tongue licked her throbbing flesh. She threaded her fingers into his hair, guided him this time, moved her hips to get him where she wanted.
He stroked himself, craved to be inside her but wanted to see her fall apart first. He grunted and cursed, slowed his strokes so as not to come, and gave her soft orders.
She did as she was told, opened wider when he asked, used her fingers to open herself for him, mewled as he licked at her wetness, and moaned loudly when she came on his tongue, her moans like a song that belonged only to him.
And then Drasko, the great lover he thought he was, lost his patience.
He found himself on top of her, thrusting in her as gently as he could at first, though he wanted to spear her through.
“Jesus,” he grunted.
Had it ever felt so good? No. Had any woman ever looked so beautiful half-naked? Never.
Her extravagant dress made her look like an angel, her body splayed among the feathers as he rummaged through the silly mess to find more of her skin.
His movements grew hurried and greedy as he thrust into her. The feeling was different than ever before. His blood was sizzling. His cock was hard and needy. He didn’t want to climax. He wanted to be inside his wife, wanted to infinitely feel her closeness.
“Tell me if I am too rough or if it’s too much,” he told her and smiled when she whispered, “More,” though she was too inexperienced yet to tell him what more meant. It was so hard to hold back, but he tried, wanting to see her fall apart around him one more time.
“Do you like the way your husband feels inside you?” he asked and grunted at her eager, “Yes,” at the way she whispered, “Drasko.” The way her lips sought out his. The way her hands in his hair became frenzied. The way she gently bit his neck, whimpered, and buckled under his thrusts.
She came again, seized around him, gasped, and he wished he could see her face, that expression of awe as if nothing had ever felt so good—him, inside her, on top of her, licking at her neck as her moans echoed through the dim space.
And then his mind switched off and gave in to the sensations of being inside her.
A few more thrusts and Drasko came so powerfully that he couldn’t get enough, still thrusting inside her afterward, still hard and wanting to come again, but eventually forced himself to stop.
He helped her dress in the shambles of feathers that still clung to her body.
When the carriage pulled up to the house, he wrapped his jacket over her shoulders and helped her outside.
He had completely forgotten about the army of Bankees, the most dangerous gangsters in London, who had escorted their carriage home while he was making love to his wife.
He had forgotten about Tripp and Nina, who suddenly appeared behind them as they walked to the house entrance, Grace’s dress leaving a trail of little pink feathers behind.
Holding his hand on the small of Grace’s back, Drasko ordered, “My bedroom,” and she obeyed, walked silently by his side until they were upstairs.
His eyes dropped to her diamond necklace as he shut the bedroom door behind them.
“That has to go.” He took the necklace off her and tossed it carelessly onto the bureau.
He licked his lips and noticed her eyes dropping to his mouth right away.
“I like when you look at me like that,” he said, taking off his bowtie.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to lay you on my bed, kiss you head to toe, and do obscene things to you that take you to your peak and make you moan so beautifully, but you are afraid to say it out loud and instead, dance around, waiting for me to take the first step.” He started unbuttoning his vest while she stood motionless and watched him with a dare in her beautiful hazel eyes.
“Sort of like that.” He took a step closer.
“It’s all right, because I like being first. First steps.
First night. First chance of bliss .” He chuckled.
“I will have so many of your firsts, Grace,” he murmured, stepped into her, and kissed her.
His arms wrapped around her delicate waist and drew her flush against him.
“You want more tonight?” she asked absently, her fingers already twisting in his hair.
Her question was so untimely that he pulled back to catch her eyes. Was that hesitation in them?
“I do,” he said. “We both know how this night might carry on. But only I know all the things I can do to you. Say yes, Grace. Let go of your silly modesty.”
“Things?” she whispered against his mouth.
“And if you leave my bed before I tell you that you can do so, I will fuck you into next year. Understood?”
Her lips parted in a response, then closed.
“Grace, make up your mind. I am not demanding anything from you. Nor am I forcing you. I am simply asking?—”
“Yes,” she cut him off. “Will you stop talking?”
She kissed him greedily. Her hands snuck under his shirt.
But he didn’t stop talking. And as he ripped the pieces of the feather mess off her body, he whispered obscenities, the things he would do to her, which part he would invade first, something about Two Chances of Bliss , and An Eloquent Prelude , how many times she would reach her peak, how many times he would take her before sunrise, that she would not be allowed to wear clothes in his bedroom anymore, that he wanted her in his bedroom during the day.
And he followed up. He laid her down on the bed, spread her wide like an eagle, and started with An Eloquent Prelude .