“Bend over,” he murmured, and she felt his pressure on her shoulders, easing her down to the table. Dizzy with the pleasure he was giving her, she did as he said, and then he was hauling up her skirts, what seemed like miles and miles of velvet and net and petticoats, until he finally came to her drawers.
His hands lingered on the thin cotton, cupping her bottom, caressing her hips. And then he reached around her waist and released the ribbon ties, and her drawers fell down to her ankles. The air was cool against her naked thighs and bottom, soothing the heated place between her legs. She felt his fingers against her skin but no longer just a feather-brush of sensation. He was caressing her strongly, and then he gripped her thighs, edging them apart, and she felt his own muscular thigh, pressing between hers, widening her still further.
“Max?” she said on a shaky breath, and then groaned as he began to stroke her firmly between her thighs, using his thumb to caress that swollen nub, until her legs trembled and shook. She gasped, her gloved hands clenched together in front of her, and jerked her hips, reaching for that pinnacle she could feel was so close.
But he wasn’t ready yet.
Max hadn’t taken off his breeches, for she could feel the coarse cloth of them against the soft skin of her thighs as he pressed against her. And then she felt the thick and rigid length of him probing her, sliding against her slick and swollen flesh. She went very still, hardly daring to breathe as he sought entry, and found it.
At first he entered her just a little bit, and at this angle she felt her body stretching to accommodate his size. He pressed harder, trapping her between him and the table, driving into her aching flesh until she was gasping and pounding her fists on the table, and begging him, “Please, oh please, do it now!”
His splayed fingers were hot against her belly, tilting her back against his groin, and then he slid his forefinger down between her swollen lips and rubbed against her. Marietta whimpered, and then wriggled against him, urgently trying to get him to hurry up.
He slid into her again, further this time, filling her. His breath was warm against her nape as he bent over her, and murmured in her ear, “Come with me to Blackwood.”
Startled from her all-consuming passion, Marietta half turned to gape at him, but almost at once his fingers stroked her again, playing her expertly, and all thought left her. He was thrusting into her more deeply now, and although she tried to push back, to keep up the rhythm, she felt as if she were being buffeted by a sensual storm.
And it felt perfect. It felt right.
Suddenly it was too much and she cried out, her body clenching around him. He stilled, groaned deep in his throat, and thrust one last time, so deep, and collapsed against her.
For a moment all was bliss, and then in another she realized she couldn’t catch her breath. She was gasping, the candle-lit room spinning about her, her tight stays preventing her from breathing.
“Max,” she choked. “Undo me…please…can’t breathe…”
He seemed to realize what she wanted, and with a curse, opened the buttons and hooks on her dress with swift, sure hands, roughly pulling apart her bodice, so that he could find the ties of her stays.
“Hurry,” she said weakly. She felt like a fish thrown upon the shore, floundering and flapping about uselessly.
He loosened the ties on her stays with quick, practiced fingers, and the pressure upon her lungs eased. She took a grateful gulp of air. And then another. He rubbed her abdomen, gently, keeping her from sinking to the floor, and gradually the room stopped moving and she began to feel herself again.
“Why do you wear these cursed things?” Max demanded, frowning down at her.
“Because I am not the right shape for my clothes,” she said, as if he was an idiot.
He blinked at her, then let his eyes slide over her body, at her breasts spilling out of the open dress, at her lush curves that were already making him hard again. “Wear clothes that fit then,” he suggested sensibly.
“If I wore my clothes without a corset then I would look…well, I am too plump, Max. The queen has been called fat all her life, and it is the same with me. We are both short, plump women, but she is a queen and at least people do not dare comment to her face. It is different for me. I have always been the short sister, the plump sister—the disgraced sister. The odd one out.”
He still didn’t look as if he believed what he was hearing. He shook his head, and when he replied he spoke in the reasonable tone one used for people who belonged in Bedlam. “Marietta, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I grant you that you need to be covered, but only because otherwise all men will want you. If you came to Cornwall with me, you would never need to wear clothing—in fact I would insist that you did not.”
Her laughter was unrestrained.
“I am serious,” he retorted, but his eyes were warm. “I want access to you day or night…day and night.”
“Won’t the servants notice?” she asked, but there were tears in her eyes.
“Blackwood is a big house. I’m sure we could find lots of corners to hide away in while we continue our lessons.”
She shook her head. “I can’t come with you to Blackwood,” she said quietly.
“I’m asking you to marry me,” he replied a little desperately.
“I know you are. I will never marry. I cannot take the risk. Besides, you’re in a vulnerable position right now, you probably don’t know what you’re saying. You need to think hard about your future, Max, not saddle yourself with a fallen woman like me.”
“Don’t treat me like an imbecile,” he sounded cross. “I know what I want.”
“Max, there’s no point to this conversation. I have already made up my mind. Don’t spoil our time together. Just accept that you must go to Cornwall and I must learn to be a courtesan.”