simple act. How could she not have known how good such a thing would feel—the friction, the fullness, the forbiddances? No wonder they kept young ladies ignorant of such matters. It would be so easy to become addicted to this feeling, to crave it above all else.
With his free hand, he parted her folds, and she felt his breath feather across the small, sensitive nexus of nerve endings just before something wet and supple stroked across it. What…? And then she realized.
His tongue. Oh, God, he was licking her. There. Devouring her, just as his gaze had promised, as if she were the sweetest of desserts. And, oh my, it was delicious! Wasn’t that a paradox?
She teetered gracelessly, barely able to maintain her balance as the enormity—and wickedness—of what he was doing to her threatened to overcome her. Her body suffused with heat as his tongue caressed and teased, circled and stabbed, tormented and soothed. All the while, he continued to thrust that wicked finger—or was it two, now?—driving her with relentless determination toward the peak.
Tish had never been a modest, retiring sort of girl. She had discovered years before that she could bring herself to pleasurable release by rubbing the place between her legs until the tension crested and broke. But nothing she had ever experienced approached the…fever that gripped her now. She felt as if she had been reduced to pure sensation, her entire being concentrated in no more than two square inches of flesh. She was nearing the pinnacle, and when she reached it, she would not merely break, but shatter into a thousand brilliant pieces.
She ached for disintegration. But she feared it, too. What if this became all she was?
As if sensing she held back, Nash’s thrusts became stronger, deeper, the pressure of his tongue more insistent and demanding. He gave her no respite, no chance for retreat. And suddenly, there it was—the point of no return—and she grabbed for the edge, seized it, clung toit as if her life depended upon it.
“Let go,” he rasped against her skin, all heated urgency and need. As if her release meant more to him than his own. As if he shared in whatever pleasure he gave her.
With that thought, there could be no more resistance. She let go and fell into shimmering, shuddering rapture.
And knew she would never be quite the same again.
Chapter Six
Nash leaned his head against the tree he was hiding behind and struggled to calm his racing pulse and ragged breath. He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself. So much for any hope he had nurtured that his response to watching Tish with Hapsborough had been a one-time occurrence. After bringing her to orgasm in the garden yesterday, Nash had almost managed to convince himself that he had only been so because he had known the notoriously quick-to-spend duke would leave Tish in a state of frustration that Nash could use to his advantage. And it had, indeed, worked out that way.
He could no longer comfort himself with that explanation, however. Not when Randley had just done a more than adequate job of satisfying Tish’s physical needs—as well as his own—and yet, here Nash stood with his cock hard as stone and his balls tight as an old lady’s purse strings.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get the image of the two of them pleasuring each other out of his mind.
Events had proceeded much as they had with Randley the day before. Lady Albemarle had accompanied the earl and Tish on their picnic, but soon excused herself back to the house. Her sister gone, Tish had flirted with the earl, encouraging him to kiss her. Eventually kissing had led to fondling and then to the earl dropping his drawers. Except that, rather than simply allowing Tish to toss him off as the duke had done, Randley had got her to suck his cock. And then, while she did so, he’d had her raise her skirts, straddle his face, and allow him to lick her sweet, sensitive cunny until they both came in one another’s mouths.
Not
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley