The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)
He raised a sinful brow. “By deep, I assume I have understood your meaning.”
“Did you not say love is like opium?”
“I believe I did, although after careful consideration—”
“Then I am in need of a healthy dose.”
His breath came quickly as he captured her mouth in a kiss that was wild and hungry.
“Lock the door, Oliver.” Her body thrummed with anticipation. To touch his smooth, bronzed skin — to feel him move inside her — was exactly what she needed.
He scanned the room with a look of surprise. “You wish to remain here?”
Everything about the masculine space reminded her of him. His musky scent hung in the air, earthy and enticing. Even the sight of mundane objects: a letter opener, a leather journal, a desk globe, seemed to radiate his unique essence. This was the room where he’d taken her in his arms, the only time she’d ever been asked to dance. And she would do everything in her power to banish the memory of Jeremy’s interference from this special place.
Employing the wiles of a seasoned courtesan, she perched on the edge of his desk. “Why not?”
She wanted him to remember her. When busy writing in his ledger, he’d be forced to put down his quill as he recalled the image of thrusting deep into her body as she lay back on the wooden surface.
“Why not, indeed?” With his mouth curled up into a wide grin, he locked the door and came to stand between her legs.
One swipe of his hand and the papers cluttering the desk landed on the floor. Large hands settled on her waist. He picked her up and pushed her back a little until her legs dangled over the edge.
“Have I told you I find your masterful approach rather appealing?” she said as the heavy thrum of desire beat its potent rhythm deep in her core.
His hand drifted up under her skirt, skimmed her stocking and bare thigh. “By masterful, I assume you mean skilled.” Warm fingers brushed against her most sensitive spot.
Nicole sucked in a breath as he stroked back and forth. “You certainly know how to rouse a lady’s desire.” Like a wanton wench, she rocked her hips against his hand.
He leant forward and kissed her throat. “And what if I want to rouse your love?”
His hand stilled for a moment as did his lips. The atmosphere in the room shifted. The energy surrounding the
m pulsed like a racing heartbeat, waiting for the answer, too. But then he cleared his throat as if the words were merely an inconvenient obstruction.
Well, she would not let him escape so easily.
“To rouse my love, you would need to defend my honour when jealous women throw their insults.”
The urge to please him took hold. Nervous fingers fluttered to the fall of his breeches and brushed lightly against the thick shaft already eager to join with her.
A mumbled curse of appreciation left his lips.
“To rouse my love,” she said undoing the buttons, “you would need to burst into a theatre box and rescue me from the clutches of a self-obsessed prig.”
“Bloody hell!” he whispered as her fingers settled around the hard length of him.
Every part of her body tingled. To know she had the ability to affect him was liberating.
She found the courage to slide her hand up and down his solid member. His skin was as smooth as silk, and he moved his hips to push through her hand.
“To rouse my love, you would need …” She was forced to stop as one long finger slid up into her sheath. “You would need to … to make me feel as though I’m the most important person in the world.”
She couldn’t talk anymore. Her mind was lost in a hazy cloud. The moist sound as his fingers teased her to distraction worked to obliterate all her inhibitions.
Desperate to take him inside her, she pumped his manhood hard and quick.
“Slow down, love.”