But she was.
And her body was painfully aware of his nearness. Of his thigh pressed between hers. Her nightdress pulled high on her hips from twisting and turning in her sleep, and the center of her was wet and throbbing. The effects of the dream. And the spicy heat of her husband, his breath warm and fanning over her exposed throat. His touch.
She was in his bed.
Wrapped up in him.
And longing for more.
She shifted, attempting to disengage herself, but the subtle movement—her attempt not to wake him—only served to lodge his leg more firmly against the apex of her legs. It was there that she pulsed and yearned for more. Now that she knew what more meant, she was rather restless and needy.
You cannot trust him, she cautioned herself.
But the rest of her had different ideas than her practical mind. And every shift of her body produced the most delicious friction just where she wanted it most. Whether it was the restorative effects of a night’s sleep or his explanation and half apology the day before, or even his request that she spend the night next to him, she could not say.
But by the faint strains of the morning, some of her anger and disillusionment had dimmed. Perhaps partly due to the fires of need burning to life. The memories of their wedding day. How delicious it had felt, the weight of him pressed atop her, his body entering hers.
As she remembered, the ache blossomed.
She moved again, rubbing herself shamelessly on his leg. Oh, that felt nice. But not nearly as nice as when his fingers had strummed over her flesh, playing her like an instrument. Or when his tongue had been on her. Or when he had been inside her.
At the last thought, Jasper shifted and made a sleepy sound, his thigh going higher, their bodies aligned more firmly. Her breasts grazed his chest, his hand still cupping her, the thumb giving a lazy swirl over her nipple. She held her breath, watching him, desperate for him.
But his dark lashes remained fanned against his cheeks, the soft exhales of his breath yet rhythmic and slow, as if slumber still held him firmly within its murky depths. She was burning for him, and he was sleeping.
Instinct claimed her. She rocked forward on the muscled thickness of his leg, bringing a sweet rush of pleasure unfurling from her core. The agonizingly sensitive bundle of flesh there was demanding. Again, she moved.
A pant escaped her.
Not enough.
She needed to reach that same crescendo he had shown her before. Needed his touch. Yet, she was too afraid to entrust herself to him. To trust in him. Anger and disillusionment may have fled, but her reluctance to believe him remained. Even if he had denied Mary entry from The Sinner’s Palace, what if there were others like her? He was a handsome man, and she had no doubt he had his pick of women.
Would he always choose her?
No one had before him.
Her misgivings did nothing to dispel the desire still unfurling within her. She was undulating on him, helpless to stop herself, chasing release. Seeking more. Skillful fingers plucked at her nipple, tugging through the thin material of her night rail.
And that was when she knew for certain.
Despite his calm demeanor and the pretense of his closed eyes and steady breathing, Jasper was awake.
“You said you would be a perfect gentleman,” she reminded him, feeling quite cross with herself for the reaction she could not seem to tame, regardless of how hard she tried or how many times she reminded herself that Jasper Sutton was trouble.
His eyes opened, and there was not a trace of sleep lingering in the hazel depths. “I said I’d be as perfect a gentleman as I can be.”
He rubbed his thumb over her nipple again.
She swallowed against a rush of longing. “How long have you been awake?”
The grin he sent her did nothing to quell the need rising fervently and furiously within. “Long enough to know you want me.”
She did.
But hearing him say it aloud made her cheeks go hot. “I was sleeping.”
That was a lie. She, too, had been awake for some time, as he would know.
His hand left her breast, gliding down her belly and then lower. “You’re not sleeping now.”
“No,” she managed as his fingers dipped, stroking her through the barrier of her night rail. “Jasper, I…oh.”
“You’re hot and wet and ready for me already, aren’t you, minx?” he asked, voice low as he played with her.
Made her more desperate.
The pleasure was a spring, coiling.
And she was helpless to stop it. Did not wish to. However, she was not willing to surrender. Not just yet.
Instead of answering him, she concentrated upon his fingers working between her thighs. Harder now, rotating in fast circles that had her hips pumping, making her grind on his thigh. Perhaps she could say nothing and reach that same pinnacle she had before. And then she would be sated and she could return to her chamber and forget all the wicked ways this man made her into a wanton.
She had been a spinster for years. Had never longed for any man. How was it that this one could bring her so thoroughly to her knees?
He leaned toward her and kissed her ear, the hollow behind it, her jaw. His fingers continued their magic. Her mind whirled even as sensation took command. She was also still vexed with him for so many things. Their hasty marriage. His clever manipulations. The lack of attention he had paid to his children, that dreadful woman who had kissed him…
His mouth opened on her neck, and he sucked. It was hot and wet and possessive. The hem of her night rail went higher and she realized he was pulling it, moving it out of his way with his other hand. Now was the time to stop him if she objected. But then, he rolled her gently to her back, and her night dress was around her waist.
His head lifted, his gaze seeking hers. “Off?”
He was asking permission. If she agreed, she knew what would happen.
The thin grip she had maintained on her restraint eased. And her every reminder, all the reasons why she must not succumb to the wicked promises awaiting her, fled.
She surrendered, nodding. “Yes.”
Tenderly, as if she were made of something far more fragile than flesh, he pulled the garment up, over her breasts, over her head, and then it was gone, tossed somewhere behind him. And she was naked.
But he was not.
Although his chest was bare, he had slept in his smalls. A concession, she had supposed, for her modesty. He pulled the bedclothes away completely, then rose on his knees. The bruise on his ribs was darker and more menacing than it had been last night, having spread and grown longer and larger. It looked angry and painful.
She touched him below the injury, not wishing to cause him further hurt. “Are you certain, with this bruise…”
He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “I’ve known worse and still gone about my day.”
“Perhaps if we… I do not want to make your injury worse,” she worried.
He chuckled and brought her hand lower, placing it over the front placket of his smalls. The evidence of his desire was there, long and thick and firm, the warmth of him seeping through the simple linen.
“No fear of that, minx. I’ve other concerns just now.”
Oh heavens. And what a concern it was.
She licked her lips, which had gone quite dry. “You are certain?”
He leaned in, fusing their lips in a kiss that quickly deepened, his tongue in her mouth. She forgot about the bruise. Instinct made her fingers curl around his length, earning a groan from him.
He broke away, and she wondered if she had made a misstep or if he was in pain. “Is it your injury?”
“It is that if I am not inside you soon, I will spend before I can be,” he said before plucking at the buttons before pulling them down his lean hips and shedding them. “That’s how badly I want you, minx.”
His raw admission pleased her. How powerful to know she had such an effect on this
magnificent man. That she made him as desperate with need as he did her. She reached for him. Her palms met hot, sleek flesh, traveling, acquainting themselves with the tense muscles of his upper arms, the sleek cording of his shoulders and neck. His body was beautiful in a way she had never imagined a man’s could be, and although she had thought the same last night when she had attended his bath, this was different.
Last night, there had been a distance separating them which did not exist now. She had spent the night in his bed. He had attempted to make amends in his own way. Her body was aflame. And he was her husband.
He cupped her face in his big, battered hands and kissed her, long and slow. There was hunger, yes, but there was also sweetness. Tenderness. On their wedding day, he had been voracious, his kisses almost bruising in their intensity. This slant of his lips on hers was different, ripe with meaning her whirling mind could not begin to comprehend.
He kissed her as if she mattered to him.
And she kissed him back the same way.
Because he did. He mattered. Half her foolish heart was so very attuned to this man. He was dark and dangerous, fierce and ferocious. Capable of pain as equally as pleasure. And yet, for her, he took his time. She appreciated the way he wooed her, even when his own need was apparent. Despite his words, he did not rush.
Instead, he seduced. Traced her lips with his tongue. Trailed kisses down her throat, over her breast. Sucked on one of her greedy nipples. Hard. So hard, she felt an answering rush of wetness between her legs and her fingernails sank into the smooth plane of his back. She arched shamelessly.
He flicked his tongue over the hardened bud, lapping at her while his hand cupped her other breast, thumb rolling over her nipple. When she was nearly mindless, he guided her, Jasper lying on his uninjured side, positioning her so that she faced him.
He caressed a path of fire down her waist, over her hip, and then he grabbed a handful of her bottom and squeezed as he leaned his forehead against hers. “My God, Octavia. I want to lick you and kiss you and fuck you until I go mad.”
His coarse language should have shocked her. She had been raised a lady. Bred to marry a lord. To inhabit drawing rooms and ballrooms and pour tea and simper over embroidery. To play the pianoforte and look pretty and have no opinion of her own. Jasper Sutton could not be further from the sort of man she had been meant to marry. Her own parents had disowned her over her decision to wed him. Polite society would likely forever scorn her.
But she found herself suddenly, fiercely grateful she had married this man. A man who was without artifice and pretense, who touched her with reverence and told her he wanted to fuck her. She knew the wicked word’s meaning. And she wanted it. Wanted him.
Wanted his lips and tongue and teeth and—dare she think it?—his manhood, too.
She explored him as he was doing to her, running her hands down his side, careful to avoid the mottled plum of his bruise. When he trailed his caresses over her mound, her fingertips traced the firmly chiseled flesh of his hip. She was growing bolder.
“Touch me. Take my cock in your hand,” he urged, voice low and soft as velvet and dipped in sin.
Cock. She liked that word. She liked that part of him. His fingers were on her, firm and warm and seeking. Parting. Finding the swollen heart of her and giving her what she wanted. And in response, she gripped him. Softly at first, fingers curling around the silken heat of his shaft. For a moment, she remained still, uncertain what to do, but then she recalled the manner in which he had held himself, stroking the way he had instructed her the first time they made love, and she moved her hand along his length.
Up and down. Moisture seeped from his crown and he groaned, hips bucking into her hand. He traced her opening. Tantalizing swirls over her folds had a sound of frustration fleeing her. She wanted him inside her. This was not enough.
As if he had heard her thoughts, he obliged her, only not in the fashion she had supposed. The finger teasing her dipped inside.
She inhaled, the sudden breach as surprising as it was delicious.
“So slick for me, minx. All this sweet dew, for me.”
Should she be ashamed? She was not certain. So much of what passed between a man and woman had been kept from her. When she had sought bawdy books and caricatures out of curiosity, she had learned some of the rudimentary mechanics. However, that had not prepared her for the man she had married.
He worked his finger in and out of her, shallow thrusts at first and then deeper, and she could no longer care or think. All she could do was exist, a creature of pleasure, made for him and the exquisite torture he visited upon her. His thumb nestled between her folds, finding the bundle that seemed to be the very center of her body. His finger sank deeper, and then a second joined the first, stretching her, filling her in a new way.
Overwhelmed by the sensation, his nearness, Jasper’s hazel gaze burning into her, she pressed her mouth to his. This kiss was as drugging as the ones which had preceded it. His fingers moved in a new way, reaching a place inside her that was indescribably wonderful.
She was lost. Helpless. All she could do was rock against his touch, taking him deeper, her tongue mating with his as they kissed. Belatedly realizing she had stopped stroking him, she resumed. He was thicker and harder and hot. So hot. And she was about to lose control.
The spasm that gripped her arrived like a lightning bolt. It hit her core and expanded outward as pleasure washed over her body. She cried out and he ate it up, kissing her harder, his hips jerking into her as she pumped him, his finger sinking deeper as she succumbed to the madness.
Then, with every bit as much haste, he broke the kiss and withdrew from her in one single, fluid motion. Taking her wrist in a gentle grip, he removed her hand from him. She was bereft and confused, the ripples of her bliss still making her channel contract in tiny bursts, when he rolled to his back and pulled her with him so that she straddled him.
She found herself atop Jasper, palms planted on his chest for purchase, uncertain what she was meant to do next.
His ribs were paining him. Badly. But he was also desperate to make love to Octavia.
Jasper was in a complex coil, trapped in two different kinds of suffering, both his own making. He ought to have seen old Tim Bradley coming with that fire iron, and he ought to have known better than to allow his gorgeous wife to ride his thigh this morning while he played with her nipple.
And yet, here he was, beneath her. He paused to bask in the sight. Ebony curls wild and flowing down her shoulders and back. The aristocratic and dainty lines of her face: golden-brown eyes with their thick, dark lashes, eyes wide, cheekbones sharp, cheeks flushed, her nose a straight little stubborn blade, her mouth too wide and full—a mouth a man could not help but to look upon and envision in all manner of sinful acts. The creamy globes of her breasts tipped with pert, pink nipples he knew how to tease and suck and bite until she moaned. The sweet, fleshy curves of her belly and waist, the dark curls shielding her mound parted to reveal glistening pink folds and one demanding, swollen pearl. He wanted her on his tongue again, and he would have asked her to sit on his face if he thought he could last that long.
As it was, no. Even the most experienced rakehells had a limit, and Octavia finding her pleasure was his. Every part of him was on the brink. His ballocks were drawn tight from the feeling of her cunny, so drenched, clamping on his finger. She was like molten silk. Hot and smooth and soft.
Her awakening to desire was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld, and as a jaded scoundrel to whom ladybirds were not strangers, he had witnessed some deuced depraved entertainments. Hell, he had seen, and partaken in, acts that would have shocked even the most hardened voluptuary.
“You are beautiful,” he managed to say, pleased with himself for stringing together coherent words despite his desperate state.
As the bliss began to fade, her countenance changed, growing less confident. “What…I do not know…”
Yes, what a bastard he was, havin
g his wife, newly introduced to fucking, ride him as if she were a seasoned harlot. And yet, thanks to his damned ribs, this was the only way either of them was going to have complete satisfaction.
“You need to be the one atop this time,” he said, short of breath thanks to a combination of lust and pain. But for Jasper, this was life. He would not have it any other way.
Her dark brows rose. “I can?”
“Yes,” he assured her. “You can. And will.”
He took hold of her waist. She was still wonderfully wet and prepared. That would render this far easier.
“Jasper?”
He guided her up. “Brace your hands on either side of me, sweet.”
She did as he asked, her hair falling around them in waves, a dark, decadent, sweet-smelling curtain. That exotic floral perfume of hers wrapped him in a spell. He was lost for a moment, until his aching cock reminded him of what needed to come next.
He gripped himself, angling the tip toward her entrance. Finding her wet heat was easy. Persuading her to relax enough to allow him to slide inside, however, was no small feat. She was clenched. Her jaw, her cunny.
“Relax yourself,” he coaxed. “Let me in.”
“Are you certain this will work?” she worried.
He would have laughed or kissed her if he wasn’t so out of his damned idea pot as it was. “Certain.”
The hand that was on her waist urged her forward. She allowed him to move her until his cock was at her entrance. Liquid heat greeted him. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Jasper had to bite his cheek to keep from surging up. Doing so would only hurt his ribs and remove the power from Octavia’s grasp. Neither would be any good, regardless of how suddenly ravenous he was for her.
“Slowly,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed, brow furrowed in concentration, as if two people fucking was something she ought to have studied somewhere, a debutante’s talent she had somehow failed to learn when she’d taken her lessons on sewing and dancing and curtsying.
“Don’t think,” he said. “Just feel.”
“Just feel,” she repeated.
Sutton's Spinster: A Wicked Winters Spin-off Series (The Sinful Suttons Book 1) Page 13
