Without ending their kiss, he moved them, backing her across the cavernous chamber. It had not failed to escape her notice that Decker’s home was immense and sprawling by London standards, and that the private rooms were every bit as lushly furnished and ornate as the public. He was a gentleman of obscene wealth, as evidenced by their marriage contract.
It felt as if they traveled forever, and yet it must have only been moments. The room was large but not endless. Finally, the massive, carved oak bed she had spied upon their initial entrance loomed behind her. Her bare bottom connected with cool linens, a firm mattress, reminding her she was almost entirely nude. Already, he had made her forget. Of course he had. He was the sun, brightening her world, bringing with him all the light, giving her life. How could she think of anything but him when his lips were upon her?
Strangely, she was not ashamed. Nor was she nervous. Jo knew not a modicum of hesitation. There was only a natural, abiding sense of rightness about the man, the moment, the act they were about to share.
His hands clamped on her waist, lifting her. He deposited her in the center of the bed as if she were something rare and precious he had only just discovered. When he straightened, their mouths parted, and she mourned the end to their kiss. But her breathlessness only increased when he stood to his full height and, keeping his stare pinned upon hers, began opening the fall of his trousers. She felt like a watch spring, tightly wound as she waited and watched.
Down his hips those trousers went, and with them, his smalls. Although the bed obscured him from mid-thigh down, it could not hide his manhood, thick and long, jutting from his impressively honed body. The lifeless marble of Adonis in the gardens had ill-prepared her for the sight of Decker, in flagrante delicto.
“Stunning,” she whispered, then flushed furiously at her gauche antics.
What must he think of her? He had known many lovers before her, and surely none of them had ogled him with such naïve astonishment.
“I would have said the same of you, but the word would have never held,” he said, his voice husky. “Glorious. Lovely. Breathtaking. Utterly ravishing. All of them pale in comparison to the sight of you, naked.”
She pressed her thighs together, feeling at once brazen and…hungry. Yes, that was the word. Starved.
For him. For what he would do to her. For what he would show her.
“I am wearing my stockings,” she murmured foolishly, her mouth going dry.
“Leave them,” he ordered softly as he joined her on the bed, trailing his hand up her calf, past her knee. Beneath the barrier of the fine silk, gooseflesh pebbled her skin. “I like the way you look in nothing but these innocent wisps of silk.” He lowered his mouth to her knee, thigh, kissing the bare skin above her garter, where her stockings ended. “I like the way you look in my bed.”
“I like the way I feel in your bed,” she blurted, continuing her campaign of making herself feel dreadfully inexperienced and the opposite of every woman he must have known before her.
“Good.” He gave her a devilish smile as he kissed higher, to her hip bone. “I dreamt of this, too, you know.”
“You did?” she breathed as his mouth left a trail of decadence to her breasts.
“More times than I can count.” He caressed her breast, cupping it in his palm, flicking his thumb over the peak. “And I thought about this, as well.”
Warmth washed over her. She had touched her own breasts before, in the privacy of the bath or late at night, beneath the counterpane when everyone else was abed. She knew how pleasant the sensation was. However, Decker’s large hand upon her was nothing at all like touching herself. It was electric. It was… Description failed her. Her nipples were hard, her breasts aching, and the place between her clamped thighs was damp and pulsing.
“Oh,” was all she could manage, her hands settling upon him at last. He was within reach, and how could she deny herself the luxury?
“Do you want to know what else I thought about?” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the curve of her breast. “I thought about what color your nipples would be and whether or not your breasts would fill my palms.”
She did not have a particularly large bosom. Every part of her was small, and she knew it, from her tiny feet to everywhere else. Whilst some ladies whirled around the ballroom with generous décolletages on full display, hers had been disappointingly as diminutive as the rest of her.
“They hardly fill your palms,” she said, feeling once more like the wallflower she was.
“They are perfection,” he told her, a reverence in his tone that made her believe him. “And they are the color of summer roses in full bloom.” He kissed her other breast, leveraging himself on his elbows as he cupped her in his hands. “And I thought about doing this.”
He took a nipple into his mouth and sucked. And she felt that wet suction, the heat of his mouth, followed by the lash of his tongue over the taut bud, everywhere. Once more, he chased the fears. The stagnant voice which had always told her she was not enough—that she would never be enough—vanished.
She arched into his knowing mouth, and his fingers skimmed back down her body, finding the apex of her thighs. Fingers coasted over her mound in a featherlight caress, coaxing her to relax. He made her feel beautiful. Her body was awash in senses: his scent, his touch, his tongue, his mouth, his touch. The heat of him at her side.
He skimmed over her seam, a long finger parting her, finding her throbbing center, the place where all her desire dwelled. The place only she had ever touched before. Decker stroked firmly, with quick pulses that had her gasping with pleasure and made her hips rise from the bed to meet him.
He released her nipple, ran his tongue over the tight bud, and then gave her a sultry look from beneath the sooty fringe of his lowered lashes. “You like this, darling?”
Cruel man. Of course she liked it, as he must know. She loved it, in fact. Everything. All of it. Him. Yes, she thought she may love him, too. But she did not dare say that now, and furthermore, she was also not entirely certain her mind and tongue were jointly capable of forming words. Problem solved.
“Mmm,” she said instead.
A purr.
Goodness, she certainly felt feline at the moment. Languorous and ready to be worshiped. Give her a good patch of sun and Decker’s hands and lips upon her, and she would want for nothing.
He moved to her other breast as his finger flicked over her with devastating pressure and friction. How quickly he brought her to the edge. Nothing could have prepared her for this, his dark, tousled head bent, his lips drawing on her nipple, sucking. His teeth nipping gently. Tugging. His tongue soothing the sting, running lazy circles around the peak before lapping at the stiff, puckered bud.
So quickly, she turned to flame. Her body was on fire for him. And the fire only increased when he swirled his fingers over her. He released her nipple, his breath hot on her skin. Kiss, kiss, kiss.
He raised his head, the astonishing blue of his gaze clashing with hers. “What about this, bijou? Slower or faster? Harder or softer? Tell me what you like, what you want.”
Good heavens, he wanted her direction? She had never touched herself long enough to know what she liked. She had aspired to being wicked, but she did not fool herself into believing she ever had been.
“Yes,” she gasped as he pressed a bit harder, his fingers moving rapidly over her.
“Slower?” he asked, gentling his ministrations.
Not enough.
“Faster,” she bit out. “Harder, too.”
He grinned. “A lady who knows what she wants. I approve.”
Jo was not certain she knew what she wanted, aside from Decker. He was all, it seemed to her now, that she had ever wanted. She thought back on the words her sister-in-law Clara had spoken to her a few weeks and seemingly a lifetime ago. Yes, Jo felt the same way, as if her heart had known Decker’s forever.
As if this moment, this closeness, had been destined. Pre-ordained.
It wa
s thrilling and terrifying in equal measures.
He strummed her sex as if he were a musician finely attuned to his instrument. And then he was kissing his way back to her lips. Kiss, kiss, kiss. All the way to the hollow at the base of her throat, which he tongued. Kiss, kiss, kiss. To her ear. His tongue slid over the outer ridges, then delved inside. He continued playing with her as he went. Tormenting her. Working her into a frenzy with his knowing touch.
And, oh…oh…oh.
She was—
The sensation hit her, suddenly, warm and cataclysmic. Bliss. She was shaking. Her heart pounded. For a moment, she feared she was dying. Was this the passion she had only ever heard about? Surely not. She could not breathe. Tremors passed through her as she writhed beneath her husband’s caresses.
“Are you coming for me, darling?” he asked into her ear.
If that was what this mysterious pleasure was, then the answer was yes. She was. She was caught in the merciless grip of desire so profound she had never imagined it could exist. And yet, it did. But then, his fingers slid down her folds, leaving that tender bud. He prodded her entrance, where she was wet and aching and ready.
“Yes,” she gasped as his finger dipped into her channel. Not deep, but a slow, tentative penetration.
Testing her.
It was new and strange and yet also deliciously intriguing.
“You are so wet,” he said in that low voice of his, with a note of praise. “So ready for me, sweet Josie.”
Once more, words were beyond her.
But it did not matter then, because his lips were on hers, stealing anything she may have spoken. Drowning her thoughts, her fears. Soothing her with the strong slant of his mouth. He kissed her ferociously. Divinely. She opened for his tongue, tasting him. Wanting him.
And then, a different part of him altogether was prodding her below. The broad head of his manhood. He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh, falling over her lips the same way the tousled waves of his dark hair fell over his brow in rakish abandon. His beautiful face was a study in restraint, his square jaw rigid, his eyes dark, the skin over his slashing cheekbones taut. He was more handsome than any man should be.
He was her husband.
The thought made her weak and wild, all at once.
“I am going to take you now,” he warned against her mouth. “From what I understand, it may cause you pain at worst, discomfort at best… I shall try to be gentle.”
She could not fathom how he could ever hurt her. Not physically, anyway. Emotionally—she could not bear to contemplate the notion. Jo swallowed, trying to catch her breath, trying to ready herself. To compose herself.
“Take me,” she urged him, desperate for the preliminaries to be over. Desperate to feel him inside her. At last.
“Tell me if I should stop,” he ground out, sounding as if he were in pain.
His brow was furrowed, his entire countenance rigid. How still he held himself, all to protect her. A new rush of tenderness for him washed over her.
She slid her legs apart, hooking them instinctively around his hips, bringing them together. “Do not. Not now, not ever, I beg you.”
“Ah, God, Josie.” His forehead dipped to hers, their noses rubbing. His lips were firm, kissing her, his tongue bold as ever, sweeping into her mouth.
And then, in an instant, everything changed. He thrust his hips, and his manhood sank inside her. Lodged deep. One full buck of his hips was all it had taken, and he was there, throbbing and hot and intrusive and wonderful. Painful, but wonderful.
Her breath was gone. Her mind, obliterated.
Instead, she relied upon her body, upon instinct.
She clung to him, kissing him back with all the pent-up fury in her heart. With all the longing, the desire, the confusing, raging, effervescent lust. She moved, discovering he was not seated as fully as he could be. There was more.
He thrust again, a rumble reverberating from his chest, and she swallowed it in their kiss. Decker was all she could think, all she could feel. She wanted everything he would give her. All of him.
And he seemed to understand without her needing to give voice to the innate needs within her. She jerked her body against his, bowing from the bed, her legs wrapped around him. He planted a hand in her unbound hair, clutching a fistful, holding her tight to him as he kissed her.
One more pump of his hips, and he was all the way inside her. Deep. Nothing could have prepared Jo for this moment, this consummation of their relationship, this communion of souls and desires and frantic, all-consuming, pent-up desire. He severed the kiss, raising his head.
“How do you feel, darling?” he asked, holding himself still instead of continuing as her body wanted him to.
“Full,” she answered honestly. “And wonderful.”
He kissed her on a groan, and then he began moving again. Slowly at first, gliding in and out of her body with a steady pace that threatened to unravel her. She clutched him, instinctively following his motions, her hips undulating in time to his rhythm. As his tongue plundered her mouth, his fingers once more found that slick nub at her center. He played with her. The combination of his shaft inside her, his fingers flying over her flesh, the weight of his body atop hers, and his mouth owning her lips proved too much.
She clenched on him, convulsing as pleasure overwhelmed her. This was more potent than the euphoria which had come before. Different, better, because he was within her, thrusting faster now, less controlled. As the last ripples of desire lingered, his body stiffened. On a low groan, he withdrew from her. Grasping his rigid cock in his hand, he spent into the bedclothes before hurling himself to his back.
Jo lay there, heart thundering, body humming with the aftereffects of lovemaking.
“When do you want the cream ice?” he asked suddenly into the silence, sounding as winded as if he had just run the course of St. James’s Square.
“Mmm.” She turned to him, smiling shyly, feeling sated, blissful, and wholly unlike herself. “What is cream ice?”
Laughter tore from him. Bold, deep, dark.
Beautiful.
She did not think she had ever heard him laugh before. Or if she had, certainly not with such unrestrained delight. Jo found herself smiling back at him, knowing she was the source of his pleasure, his humor. How intoxicating it was to think that she, a mere wallflower, could so thoroughly please a man like Elijah Decker without trying.
“Vixen.” There was no heat in his voice as he made the charge. Indeed, if anything, his voice was laden with undeniable approval.
“You would not have me any other way,” she dared to say.
“Come here, minx,” he ordered her affectionately.
She scooted nearer, settling against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, mooring her to him. Gently, he brushed a hand over her hair. She inhaled deeply of his scent and returned his embrace.
And as she listened to the steady thump of his heart, that was when she knew for certain what she had been too hesitant to accept until this very moment.
Jo was in love.
Hopelessly, desperately in love with her husband.
I feel as if my heart has always known his.
How terrifying.
Chapter Twelve
Ways to be Wicked
1. Kiss a man until you are breathless.
2. Arrange for an assignation. Perhaps with Lord Q?
3. Get caught in the rain with a gentleman. (This will necessitate the removal of wet garments. Choose said gentleman wisely.)
4. Sneak into a gentleman’s bedchamber in the midst of the night.
5. Go to a gentleman’s private apartments.
6. Spend a night in a gentleman’s bed.
7. Make love in the outdoors.
8. Ask
Once had not been enough.
A terrifying realization, that.
Decker had woke that morning with an erection to rival Priapus. His new wife had been tucked safely away in her chambers, sleeping soundly
, no doubt, leaving him to once more take himself in hand to thoughts of her.
Thoughts which were a thousand times more erotic now that he had actually been inside her tight, wet heat. His cock, however, refused to oblige him. He had been unable to spend.
Frustrated, he had settled himself at the breakfast table where his newspapers awaited him only to discover Jo was already there, looking utterly ravishing and giving him a second go at winning the prize for cockstand of the century. All before half past eight in the morning.
He, who prided himself upon his silver tongue and rakish charm, was unexpectedly speechless. He stopped at the threshold of the dining room, drinking in the sight of her. She was wearing a cobalt-blue silk gown patterned with blushing pink roses. The gown was eye-catching and bright, but it was the loving fit of it, showing off her curved waist, the décolletage trimmed with blonde lace revealing a mouthwatering hint of her bosom, that almost ended him.
She paused in the act of filling her plate from the sideboard, her hair piled high atop her crown, more stunning than he had ever seen her. “Good morning.”
Her soft smile and the sudden color in her cheekbones told him she was thinking of all that had passed between them the evening before. So was he. In fact, there was not room for anything else in his mind. Not even words.
And so he bowed to her with something that resembled a grunt rather than a return of her morning salutation. Doing his best to hide his unfortunate condition from the servants overseeing the early morning meal, he strode toward the sideboard.
He was about to snatch up a plate and help himself to his customary bacon, ham, eggs, and fruit when it occurred to him he was a husband now. Eating breakfast was no longer a solitary affair. Perhaps it would now involve manners and communication beyond burying himself in the newspapers.
He was not sure he liked that just yet.
Decker cleared his throat and turned to his still-blushing bride. “May I fill your plate for you?”
Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2) Page 17
