Almost a Gentleman (28 page)

He grinned. "Do you really feel possessive of me? I shall enjoy knowing that."

"And could so perfect a gown truly be out of fashion?" he asked.

She nodded. "It's three seasons old."

He took a step across the room's threshold.

"Of course," he said softly, "it's the
fit
of a garment that matters and not its newness, isn't that so?"

She smiled to think that he remembered their first conversation so exactly.
She
remembered every word, but she wouldn't have thought that he…

He kicked the door shut behind him. "Isn't that so, Phoebe?" he said.

They stared at each other over what seemed an insurmountable gulf of space, but which was, in fact, only about a yard of empty air between their bodies. As if to test the distance, he raised his arm and reached out to trace the tops of her breasts with his index finger. She gasped, perhaps at the coldness of his hand. Or perhaps, she thought a moment later, she'd gasped to hear her name pronounced with such hot, slow passion.

She felt a wave of dizziness. Quickly, she took a deep, shuddering breath to steady herself as he caught hold of her shoulders with rough, icy hands and pulled her toward him. His face was cold from the outdoors, his lips and tongue almost unbearably warm in contrast. He tasted faintly of brandy.
Fire and ice
: the words echoed in some distant reach of her mind. She held him tightly, slipping her bare arms beneath his coat. She could feel the muscles girding his torso; damn those stern, proper layers of wool and linen that prevented her from touching him directly. She wanted to touch, to smell, to taste his skin.

To taste him… quite as he was tasting her mouth at the moment. His kiss was deep but leisurely; she arched her neck and threw back her head, opening herself to his explorations of her. His lips slid down her neck, and for a moment his tongue filled the tremulous hollow of her throat.

She felt a sudden loosening, a short, sudden rush of cool air into the warm space between her breasts. He'd undone the top few hooks of her dress and had pulled it a few inches down her shoulders. Impatiently, he pushed her chemise down below her breasts; the fabric strained but didn't tear: a moment later he'd buried his face in the space he'd freed. His tongue—it felt rough now, like a cat's—flicked against one of her nipples. A clever tongue, she thought: what tiny circles he made with it; a mischievous tongue, darting and weaving, teasing and tormenting her. Sensation radiated from the little knob of flesh he seemed content to pleasure so exclusively; warm, undulating waves of feeling cascaded downward to her knees. She pressed her thighs into his. Wantonly, she rubbed her belly and pelvis against him, murmuring her low laugh as she felt his erection press and swell in response.

Good, she thought, absurdly proud of this evidence of his arousal. Good, I'm not the only one feeling such transports.

Ah, but he'd been waiting for exactly such an unguarded moment, she realized an instant later. Her self-satisfaction had made her careless. She'd been caught.

Quickly, he'd drawn her nipple between his lips—oh Lord, he had it between his teeth now. It was too late for retreat—if she'd truly wanted to retreat. She breathed out a long
ohhh
while fear and trust waged delicious warfare within her. He bit down, not hard enough to hurt her, but hard enough to show her that he could—and would, if she dared back away from him. His grasp on her shoulders tightened as she cried and groaned and shuddered through the waves of orgasm that racked her. He raised his head, and, still holding her (for at that moment she would have found it difficult to hold herself upright), he watched with interest as she struggled to regain her composure. His pupils were distended, deep black pools surrounded by rings of blue.

"You need a lot of lovemaking, don't you?" he whispered.

Well, it's a bit humiliating, isn't it, she thought, to have one's measure taken so quickly and accurately. Still, there was no disputing it: she might feel quite glorious, but she was hardly satiated. He'd merely taken the edge off her desire. She wanted a great, great deal more from him.

"A lot of lovemaking," he repeated. "Don't you, Phoebe?" He spoke the words aloud this time.

"Yes," her voice was hoarse, and seemed to have come from a long distance away. She cleared her throat. She raised her head proudly. "Yes, I expect that I do."

"Good. You're in the right hands, then."

Wonderful hands, she thought. As though leading her through a dance, he guided her with gentle pressure at the back of her waist, maneuvering her and himself to an armchair in a window alcove. He sat down; she stood before him, trapped within the embrace of his thighs. He nuzzled her bosom. "You smell sweet," he murmured as he lifted his head. She stared down into his eyes.

"I would have undressed you by now," he said, "if my hands weren't so confoundedly stiff from the cold. And rough, too—I've almost given myself chilblains—we're lucky that I haven't pulled the fabric of your dress.

"But instead, I want you to undress for me. I'll help with the occasional hook or lace, of course."

"Yes, but what of
your
clothes?" she asked. "You re to remain all laced and shod and buttoned up while I take off my clothes for you? How very unfair to me. I want to see you."

"We're not discussing what's fair and what is not. You'll undress
me
after you undress yourself."

She laughed. "How
exquisitely
unfair. And very lordly of you, too, I must say."

He slapped her rump lightly and kissed her breast.

"Well, I am a lord, don't forget. I try to be a good, honest, and decent one, but the fact of the matter is that I own rather a lot of land. And I'm afraid that the habit of being lord over all that I survey is a hard one to break.

"Now go stand there by the fireplace." This time his slap on her rump carried a little more force with it. "You know the spot. It's where the lamplight meets the light from the flames and makes you look so bewitching."

He loosened his legs from around her hips. Slowly, she backed away from him toward the warm pool of golden light. One walked backwards, she thought, after having made one's curtsies at court. In respect, in humility… but hardly with the slow, lustful, provocative movements she felt herself employing.
Lord of all that you survey, are you, sir? Well, we shall have to see about that
.

The light flowed over her as she reached the spot he'd described. She remembered Billy, his first night with her, when she's commanded him to undress. His gestures had been meek, his posture compliant, but there'd been a boldness, a daring, to how he'd bent and turned for her. He'd felt his own beauty in the heat of her eyes. He'd basked in her desire, glorying in his power to arouse it.

Well, it
was
delicious, she thought, to be the object of such imperious desire. And yet not
purely
an object: surely an object couldn't be as suffused with feeling as she was at this moment. But she'd untangle those paradoxes some other time. Right now she'd simply absorb it all. Her skirt blew softly about her legs, even as her naked breasts lifted and her nipples tightened under his gaze. He was staring at her breasts with—
oh thank heaven
!—delight.

His gaze traveled slowly downward. She raised her chin, preening for him, slowly arching her back as a cat might do. Peering at him through her eyelashes, she watched the corners of his mouth twitch as he took note of the black garters just visible through the white skirt of her dress. His smile widened as his eyes descended to the dark red ribbons that crisscrossed her ankles.

"I wondered about those narrow, graceful ankles when I watched you waltzing at Almack's, Mr. Marston," he said. "They were remarkably neat for a gentleman. But I simply thought them an aspect of your sublime elegance."

"I'm less sublime this evening," she murmured. "But that's because I'm not Marston." She cupped her breasts in her hands. "Or hadn't you noticed?"

"Well, you don't seem to be. But perhaps you're simply an unusually… fleshy young gentleman."

He swept his eyes over her thighs and belly, focusing his gaze upon the spot where her legs met. "If you're not Marston you should present me with irrevocable proof of it."

"That's easily done." She reached behind her to undo the hooks at the back of her dress. She put it aside, quickly drew off her chemise, and stepped out of her petticoat. More slowly now, she began to loosen her drawers. His eyes hadn't moved from her center. Fumbling with strings and buttons, she stared at his large hands spread out on top of his knees. He flexed his fingers: she hoped the warmth had returned to them and that he was feeling less stiff now. Well, his hands didn't look stiff. They were large and strong, and looked capable of just about anything.
Why, just the thickness of his thumb
, she thought dreamily,
would be enough to
…

Her drawers slid down her legs to the floor. "I believe that's the proof you required, my lord," she announced, stepping out of them and kicking them aside with a shameless giggle. She hadn't expected to flaunt her naked quim quite as readily as it seemed she was doing. Perhaps she'd taken encouragement from the involuntary sigh that had forced his mouth open as he stared at the triangle of chestnut curls on the plump mound rising below her belly.

Oh yes, she'd enjoyed both the sigh and the intensity of his eyes upon her. She rubbed her thighs together to try to control her excitement.

"Keep them parted," he growled. He winced immediately after, embarrassed at having revealed the extent of his impatient desire.

But she was beginning to feel rather impatient herself. Although this game of displaying herself for his pleasure was a most provocative one, perhaps it was time to move on.

Well, she had only the corset and the shoes and stockings to remove now. Frowning, she tugged at the laces at her back.

"My lord."

"Ummm."

"There seems to be a knot that I can't untie. Would you help me…"

"Well, hurry on over here, then."

But now he was becoming careless, too. For if he'd really wanted to continue with this game, she thought, he would have turned her around and concentrated upon the corset laces, instead of fumbling absently with them while he nuzzled her breasts.

It didn't matter. There hadn't been a knot. The corset fell to the floor at his first tug on the strings, as she took advantage of his momentary surprise to unknot his cravat.

He shook his head. "You're headstrong, disobedient."

"I've been a man for three years. It engenders habits that are hard to break."

His hand moved downward, tracing the cleft between her buttocks, his finger stopping for a moment to probe her. She closed her eyes and stiffened, only relaxing a moment later, when his finger crept forward between her legs and into the very wet opening there.

"All right, undress me then, if that's what you're so keen to do."

"I—I don't know if I can undress you, David, wh-while you're doing
that
to me."

He'd found her clitoris easily. She let out a long, whistling breath as he moved his finger against it.

"Of course you can undress me."

And so she did, clumsily pulling away his garments and flinging them every which way, while he moved his finger within her and she gasped and groaned in the throes of helpless, brutish pleasure.

Coat, waistcoat, shirt and cravat finally gone, she kissed her way down his naked chest, dragging her lips along the ridges of muscle, rolling his nipples between her fingertips, rubbing her cheeks and chin along the line of thick black hair that bisected his belly and disappeared at the waistband of his trousers. She teased him a few times, reaching his waist and then moving upward again, rubbing her breasts against him before kissing her way back down. She wouldn't simply give him what she knew he wanted next; he'd have to show her that he wanted it.

He groaned, took his finger out of her, and gently pushed her shoulders downward. She moved down to her knees to unbutton him, to open his trousers—he groaned again, happily this time—and to kiss and stroke and run her tongue along the length of his erect penis.

The fancy work
—ah yes, it was fully as impressive as Alison had said. A pleasure to look upon—for those who might be satisfied by looking. Phoebe wanted more than that. She touched him every way she could think of, transported by avid curiosity and delight. Her hands spanned the thickness of his penis and cupped the weight of his balls; her tongue explored the sculptured contours of head and shaft, the elegant tracery of distended veins, the taut bow of his erection. She pressed her breasts together, caressing him between them while she kissed and tongued him at the tip. Finally she drew him into her mouth, arching her neck to accept him as he lengthened still more, past her cheeks and toward her throat.

His belly trembled under her lips. One of his hands grasped her hair to guide her head, occasionally slowing or speeding the movement of her lips over him. She was beginning to understand which rhythms he preferred when he pulled himself out of her mouth and nudged her head away. "My boots, my trousers," he whispered, and she removed them quite as deftly as she had once imagined.

"Come here," he said. She straddled his lap, holding herself up for a moment while he moved into place beneath her. Slowly, she lowered herself onto him, feeling a marvelous ache and opening as the walls of her quim opened to reshape themselves around him.