Sarah hooked a finger in the waistband of his drawers and tugged.
The hard length of him sprang free. Jarrod inhaled sharply.
"What have we here?" she mused, tracing it with the tip of her gloved finger. "A French eclair without the frosting?"
Jarrod closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip as Sarah ran her finger up and down his shaft. "This eclair's all English," he managed through gritted teeth, "and loaded with cream. Mind your glove, my lady, so you don't get any on it."
Sarah looked closely and saw that he was right. A drop of pearly white liquid glistened at the top. She quickly unbuttoned and removed her glove so she could touch him with her bare hand. The feel of him took her by surprise. She expected hardness, but the top of him wasn't hard. It was soft. Incredibly, velvety soft. And that intrigued her. She traced the length of him with her bare finger, stopping to touch the liquid. She rubbed the pearly drop into the velvety soft flesh, then watched, fascinated, as another drop immediately took its place. "You are loaded with cream," she said, reaching out to grasp him.
"Easy," he cautioned, shuddering with a mixture of exquisite pain and pleasure as she gripped him. "You can't squeeze it out. You have to coax it out." He took her hand and showed her the motion. "Although, I doubt it will take much coaxing."
He was right. Sarah proved to be a most adept and enthusiastic pupil. Jarrod quivered with pleasure and came very close to spilling himself in her hand as Sarah pumped him just the way he'd showed her. Just the way he liked. Until he reached the limit of his control.
"Stop," he ordered, leaning his forehead against the top of her head in order to catch his breath and gain control of his racing heart.
Sarah eased her grip on him and gently moved her hand up and down. "Better?"
"No," he answered.
"Don't you like it?"
"I love it." His chest was heaving with effort and he ground out the words between each breath. "But you must stop. I only have so much control," he said. "And I'm at the limit." Jarrod reached down and caught hold of her wrist, forcing her to end the magnificent torture.
Sarah stopped the motion, but she didn't let go. "What happens if I continue and you lose control?"
"I spill my seed," he said. "And you'll have cream all over your talented little hand."
"It's a sin to spill your seed anywhere but inside a woman," Sarah told him.
"Where did you hear that?"
"From the Bible." She added, "Papa had whole sermons devoted to the sin of needlessly spilling one's seed and how it leads straight to hell."
"Believe me, my sweet," Jarrod groaned, "it isn't needless. Quite the contrary. And if it's a sin, then every man you're ever likely to meet is going to hell because it's done quite regularly."
"Will you be able to return to the ballroom afterward?"
He managed a nod.
"And dance?"
"Yes."
"Then may I continue?"
Jarrod conceded. How could he refuse so polite a request? How could he refuse to do what his body urged him to do? How could he not want to take her in his arms and make love to her forever?
"So long as you can locate my handkerchief."
* * *
Chapter Twenty-One
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The gods have their own rules.
— Ovid, 43 B.C.-A.D. 18