Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin 1)

His grin broadened, he drew himself up like a proud young buck. Then, whisking her onto his lap, he slid a finger inside her once more and began to massage the slick nub of her sex.

“Stephen, please!” she gasped, jerking at the wicked sensations.

His mouth was on her earlobe, his breath warm as he kissed her, sending spirals of desire skimming through her nerve endings. She clutched at him, even as she wanted to push him away. Needed to.

“Please?” he echoed, almost wickedly as he pulled briefly away from the kiss. “You want more? I knew I could make you want me.”

“That’s never been in any doubt,” she gasped as she arched against him, her breath shortening as she fisted her hands in his light curls.

“And this is to show how much I want you to really want me.” It came out as a strangled whisper. “Even if now is the last time we’re ever alone.”

She felt his thighs slide from beneath her. Felt herself positioned on the bed, her knees pushed apart, her nightdress rucked up to her thighs.

His face, which had been by her earlobe, was now between her legs, his mouth burning her flesh as he trailed hot kisses upward. Higher, he went while she squirmed in both pleasure and alarm. She must stop him. She must. The sensations were too wicked, the tension within her building dangerously. This clandestine meeting with Stephen was meant to be her moment to assert control.

To put a stop to the dangerous currents that threatened to rip her from her safe a

lbeit passionless existence.

Instead, something inside her burst into renewed life as his tongue flicked across her entrance and his fingers intensified their rhythmic pleasuring. Electricity shot to her extremities, her whole body snapping into tense awareness.

“Stephen, I—”

He ignored her strangled gasp. She tried again, the words truncated on a feeble croak while his sighs of pleasure as he feasted on her mingled with her short, sharp, increasingly desperate breaths.

She gasped again, a deeper, more desperate sound. And bucked again as his tongue swept her, explored her, penetrated her, his concentration focused only on pleasuring her.

“Stephen—” She barely knew what she meant to say. Her control was slipping, even as she uttered his name. The pressure was almost too great to bear. Painful. She was connected to safety by the merest thread. She fought to reel herself in. Fought to regain her equilibrium. “Oh Stephen!”

Again he ignored her, the final sweep of his tongue her undoing.

Sensation exploded within her, violent pleasure swamping her in waves so intense it was all she could do to stop herself from crying out as her body convulsed in great shudders that rocked her to the core.

To the depths of her soul.

She realized she must have been beyond rational thought, beyond consciousness of the present, for the sound of her name penetrated as if he’d been saying it for some time.

“Sybil? Sybil?” He was lying beside her, still fully clad in his evening clothes, his cheek against hers as he stroked her cheek. “Did you enjoy that?” he whispered, twisting his head.

Weakly, she nodded, and he grinned, nibbling her earlobe. “If I’m not needed to sire an heir I hope you’ll call on me for my services in this department any time you wish, Lady Partington.”

“Oh Stephen...” She laughed softly. “You are wicked. See what you have reduced me to? I can barely move. What will I do when you are gone?”

“Find ways and means to meet, of course,” he said, as if he really believed it. She rose up on her elbows and gently kissed him.

He was lovely and considerate and she’d never felt so desirable and appreciated. But she was conscious of the time. The lack of time.

Humphry had indicated he was ready to sire an heir. As his viscountess her most important role was to provide him with one. Her only role. It was why she’d lived with him for twenty years. Their marriage contract stipulated that in return for his protection and the lavish comforts he provided, she must be his vessel. If she reneged she was less than nothing. If she refused Humphry she risked losing everything.

It was the tread of footsteps in the passageway and the sound of her husband clearing his throat that provided the impetus for what she could not do alone.

They registered it at the same time, jerking apart.

“Pretend you’re asleep,” Stephen whispered, hastily pulling the covers up over her. “I’ll leave through the window.”

“No, it’s too dangerous,” she hissed but with a final kiss he was gone and she was left with the terror that if she had to live with the life of her young lover on her conscience then her own life was worth less than nothing.

The door opened. There was more noisy, self-conscious throat clearing. She smelled....