Page 78 of Beyond Scandal and Desire
“People will see us.”
“There’s no light up here. We’re one with the night. If they see anything at all, it will be only shadows. They won’t be able to discern what those shadows are doing.”
She almost asked what the shadows were doing, but she knew. She’d witnessed it the night before, in secretive places between buildings, behind trees, wherever the shadows were the thickest. She hadn’t understood why people would risk so much, risk being caught. She understood now, because now she had the itch. The itch for sensations she’d never before known, the pleasure spiraling through her, the promise of it filling her with bursts of color: red, green, white—not only what she saw in the deepening sky but every color and shade that existed in the universe, hues she wasn’t even aware were possible.
He cupped her knee, his long fingers toying with the back of it, a place where she’d never realized the skin was so sensitive. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
Lethargically she shook her head. “I’m on the train now, I can’t disembark.”
Her reward for her words was a low chuckle just before he nibbled on her earlobe. How was it that such a small action could create such an enormous tide of sensations? His fingernails scraped along the inside of her thigh, deliciously wicked, scandalously so.
This was what she had craved and yearned for without even realizing what it was she longed to feel. A woman’s passion, one that was not satisfied with the landing of a butterfly on a palm, but one that required a man’s touch, a man’s hands, a man’s desire to please.
It was a chore to keep her eyes open as the sensations rioted through her, as her mewling escaped into the emptiness and filled it to bursting. She gasped as his fingers grazed over her curls, as his mouth journeyed over her shoulder, creating an outline of dew where cloth met skin. Separating her folds, he homed in on the tiny little bud at her intimate core. He dragged one finger over it, and she moaned in torment, sweet, exquisite torment. Another stroke, a longer one, a circling.
Her knees threatened to buckle. If not for his arm at her waist holding her against him, she’d have melted into a molten pool at his feet. His thumb replaced his finger, working earnestly to elicit more cries from her, and they were accompanied with gasps and shudders. Slowly, provocatively his finger entered her and she cried out.
“Not quite yet,” he ordered.
Lost in a myriad of sensations, she didn’t know what he meant. She couldn’t control the tingles, the pleasure dancing along her nerve endings, as another finger joined the first, moving in and out.
“Christ, but you’re tight.” He seemed pleased by the discovery.
Reaching back with one hand, she grabbed his thigh, dug her fingers into his muscles, searching for purchase, as the fireworks grew larger and larger, filling the sky, filling her, reaching for the heavens—
She cried out as an explosion of ecstasy ripped through her, claiming her, destroying her, rebuilding. Then his mouth was on hers, capturing the cries, devouring, his tongue thrusting with the same urgency that his fingers had only a few seconds before. Her foot was no longer on the brickwork, but was back on the ground, his arms cradling her body against his as his mouth continued to plunder, as though he could share everything she’d just experienced, make it his own, but it was already his as much as it was hers.
He’d given her something no one else had, and at that moment she couldn’t imagine anyone else gifting her with it. Tearing his mouth from hers, he cradled the back of her head with his large hand, pressed her cheek against his chest where she heard the rapid thudding of his heart beating in tandem with hers.
“Did you enjoy the fireworks?”
A quick burst of laughter escaped from her. She nodded, taking satisfaction in his low, dark chuckle. “I think I would stand here every night watching them,” she said on a soft sigh.
“The rooftop is yours whenever you want it.”
But she only wanted it if he was there to share it with her.
He sat against the arm of the sofa with one leg stretched out on the cushions, the other foot on the floor, and her nestled between his thighs, her back to his chest, sipping her wine. He’d never known such satisfaction as he had the moment she’d come apart in his arms. Nothing he’d ever purchased or acquired in his business dealings had brought him such pleasure. With her cheeks still flushed, he knew the only thing he’d ever enjoy more would be taking her to his bed and possessing her completely.
“Did you choose this location because you could see the fireworks of Cremorne?” she asked.
A low fire burned on the hearth. It wasn’t really needed for heat, but he liked the atmosphere it created. One perfect for seduction, although this night it seemed he was finding himself the seduced rather than the seducer. “No, it was a lovely surprise I discovered much later. I wanted access to the roof so I could look out over everything I’d accomplished, take a measure of pride in it.” Reaching for a small chunk of cheese on a platter on the nearby low table, he carried it to her mouth, fought not to grow hard as her lips closed around it, grazing his fingers.
“I thought we’d be dining downstairs in your hotel dining room.”
He heard no chastisement or disappointment in her voice. “That’s what I’d planned, but then I decided I wanted you all to myself.”
Watching the blush creep up her neck, he pressed a kiss to her nape. Her willingness to accept pleasure at his hands had taken him by surprise. Other than the desperate duke’s widow, no other lady of quality had ever given him leave to put his roughened fingers on her, in her. Tonight, for Aslyn, he wished they’d been as smooth as silk, had never grown callused lifting tin pails, had never grown rough hauling bricks.
“I should think your wife will have a jolly good time furnishing all the rooms,” she said, no doubt an attempt to keep the conversation bland rather than naughty.
He’d taken her on a tour of the flat. Other than the rooms for which he had an immediate use—the front parlor, the library, his bedchamber—he’d done very little in the way of readying the place for visitors. His brothers and Gillie generally joined him in the library where they could pour from decanters to their hearts’ content. Fancy and his mum took tea here in the parlor. “What would you do with the rooms?”
“Brighten them up a little bit, I think. You have enough dark in the hotel. After a while I think too much of it could become oppressive.”
“I wouldn’t want the pink of your bedchamber.”
Twisting around, with her elbow digging into his stomach, she caused him to grunt. Her brow was furrowed. “How do you know the color of my room?”
