She flushed. “Oh dear, how selfish of me. Of course, you must have satisfaction, too.”
He suppressed his smile with effort, her mea culpa charming. Although when it came to selfishness, she didn’t know she was dealing with a man born and bred to the principle. “There’s plenty of time,” he said.
“I don’t want to use my bed,” she quickly declared.
“Fine. We won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I understand.” He was intent on being agreeable until such a time as his cock was buried in her warm, soft body-at which point he would become even more agreeable.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ll say anything?”
Because that’s what people do in situations like this. “No bed.” He smiled. “I promise.”
“And he must behave,” Rosalind murmured, unable to resist shifting her hips ever so slightly in order to feel his gloriously large erection.
His brows rose, on guard. “Meaning?”
“You mustn’t climax in me.”
“Agreed.” That was easy. Begetting a bastard was no part of his plans.
“So sure?” Dare she ask if he was lying?
Fitz smiled. “He does as he’s told.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Such control.”
“I’m a practical man.” Her raised brows told Fitz that Edward St. Vincent hadn’t been fully in control. Common enough-and one of the reasons he was so much in demand with the ladies. “It’s all about mutual pleasure, darling, not a game of chance.” A quick smile. “Since we’re about to become closer friends, do you have a given name?”
She grinned. “Is this about friendship?”
“Of course.”
“Are you friends with all the ladies in your life?”
“I am.”
“You astonish me.” She stretched lazily, still marginally basking in a postcoital glow.
“I haven’t even begun to astonish you,” he roguishly declared, his gaze on her rising breasts, mentally ticking off the length of time he had to fuck her before morning. “If you don’t want to tell me your name-”
“Rosalind. And yours?”
“I’m called Fitz.”
There was that restraint she’d heard before in his voice. “You don’t like your given name?”
“No.”
His curt response effectively curtailed her next question. “Then allow me to say”-with her desires clearly on the rise once again, she was selfishly avoiding any offense-“I look forward to getting to know you better, Fitz.”
“Who made your gown?” His given name-his father’s name-rife with discord, he deliberately changed the subject.
“One of Sofia’s friends designed it. Would you like it off?”
She continued to surprise him. “Yes, I would,” he replied with equal frankness. “Let me help you.”
Sliding off his lap, she rose to her feet, her earlier equivocation long since taken flight. “Unbutton the back for me.”
As she turned her back to him, his mouth curved in a smile. The lady no longer required wooing.
He was back on familiar ground.
Spreading his legs, he pulled her between his thighs and reached for the silk covered buttons at the neck of her gown.
Chapter 9
FIVE MINUTES LATER, she was standing nude before him, her dress draped on the back of his chair, her chemise, drawers, and petticoat in a pile on a nearby table. She was clearly restless and impatient, her nipples taut, her skin pinked in arousal, her hips undulating faintly as if she could barely wait until he was undressed and inside her.
To that end, Fitz was swiftly disrobing, dropping his clothes on the floor with male disregard for subtleties. His jacket, waistcoat, shirt, and tie were off, as were his shoes and socks. He was unbuttoning his trousers when she whispered, “Let me do that.”
He looked up, the wistful longing in her voice instantly bringing his erection to full mast. Is this real or play? Then he let his hands drop to his sides and said, “Be my guest,” because it didn’t really matter which it was.
She reminded him of an innocent maid, so tentative were her actions, her hands shaking as she unfastened a button. Or maybe just an impatient widow, he thought, although the style of woman mattered little to his libido. Only with effort did he resist pushing her head down and shoving his cock into her mouth. It took even more constraint not to pick her up, carry her to the bed, and plunge into her lush body.
Rosalind wasn’t similarly motivated by constraint, having dispatched the former practicalities of her life in favor of extravagant, feverish, liberating desire. And if she’d not already decided to thoroughly enjoy Groveland’s legendary talents, the sight of his massive, upthrust penis freed now from his trousers would have been reason enough.
She couldn’t help but stare as he casually stripped away the last of his clothing. He was much larger than she’d expected, his size intimidating, although he was relaxed, familiar with women looking at him unclothed.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, aware of her tremulous gaze.
“I wasn’t thinking about that.” She looked up, rosy cheeked and breathless. “May I?”
It had been a long day enlivened by too many erotic fantasies in which Mrs. St. Vincent played a starring role. More to the point, his amorous activities rarely involved wooing a lady, the reverse usually the case. And he’d been drinking for hours and any number of other excuses may have motivated his novel impatience. “You may.” Reaching out, he cupped her head in one hand, pressed it downward, guided his erection into place with his other hand, and watched his cock slide into her mouth.
He smiled faintly as the lovely widow instantly took to her task.
No innocent maid at least in terms of enthusiasm.
Although her ineptitude would require some tutoring; her fingernails were cutting into his penis she was gripping it so tightly. Not that her impassioned earnestness wasn’t more than making up for that slight pain. With a mind to mitigating his discomfort and enhancing the pleasure, he loosened her grip with his fingers and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Instantly contrite, she lifted her gaze, her face pale in the shadowed light and framed by heavy waves of hair, her mouth filled with half his cock, and said in muffled accents, “I’m sorry.”
The sight was enough to bring a monk to climax.
Or a real one at least.
The Monk of London restrained himself with well-practiced skill.
He had his sights on the lady’s cunt.
Until such a time, however, he wasn’t averse to enjoying what the lady was enjoying. Not that she wouldn’t improve with a little training. Not that he wouldn’t like to train her-a curious reflection from a man who abhorred clumsy sex. And if he’d been in a rational frame of mind, he might have noticed the heresy.
What he noticed instead was her little whimpers, the familiar sound evidence of the young widow’s ravenous desire. Her hips were swaying in feverish adjunct to her breathy exhalations, her thighs were pressed tightly together as though to contain the fire within, and he briefly debated where and how he wished to climax.
A very brief debate.
Slipping a finger into her mouth, he eased his erection free, lifted her into his arms, carried her the few steps to the chair, and sitting, disposed her with effortless strength so she was facing him on her knees, his upthrust cock nudging her hot little pussy.
“I can’t wait,” he said, this man who generally made love with careless dispassion.
“Oh, good,” she panted, in artless confession. “I’m vastly impatient to feel you inside me.”
There was something about her innocent candor that touched him beyond the obvious anticipatory pleasure her words evoked. But after a lifetime of eschewing undue emotion, he quickly dismissed the singular feeling. “I almost tumbled you this morning,” he said with a small smile, “so welcome to the world of impatience.”