Sutton's Spinster (The Sinful Suttons 1)

“Jasper?” She was breathless but hesitant as she said his name.

“I am going to make you ready for me,” he managed past the rising swell of all-consuming lust.

He settled himself into place, hooking her legs over his shoulders and cupping a cheek of her arse in each hand. His fingers kneaded the soft, supple flesh. Every part of her seemed made for him. He lowered his head, traced his tongue along her slit, then moved higher. He lapped at the swollen center of her need and was rewarded by a gasp, then another moan. Her fingers slid into his hair and this time when she said his name, there was not a hint of question.

Only appreciation.

“Jasper.”

He could happily hear her moan his name every hour of every day. Every minute? Christ, he was lost. She was musky and delicious, every bit as responsive as he had hoped, her hips rocking in instinctive rhythm as she urged him on. He found himself moving with her, grinding his cockstand into the mattress in an attempt at relief. Licking a woman had never brought him off before. But he was in danger of spilling onto the counterpane like a lad tupping his first woman.

He held her to him and feasted, sucking on her clitoris, running his tongue between her folds. His face was buried in her sex, and she was slick, moaning. Close. So close. He licked into her, groaning when she pulled at his hair and thrust herself forward. He found his way back to her pearl then gently bit, working her with his teeth. She shuddered beneath him, coming undone.

Rubbing herself against him, she whimpered, seeking more. Wet. She was so wet. Drenched. In a helpless frenzy, he continued licking and laving and sucking. Giving her everything she wanted until she came a second time with a low, keening moan. Need crashed over him like a violent wave in a storm-tossed sea.

Damnation.

There was nothing else he could do. Not enough time. He rose to his knees and took his leaking cock in a firm grip. There she lay, legs open, flesh swollen and glistening and pink, lips parted. Her honey-brown gaze met his as he stroked himself. Once, twice. The pinnacle that built inside him was fierce. Weeks upon weeks of longing for her, of imagining marking her as his, coupled with the taste of her on his tongue and her erotic abandon rose to a crescendo.

With a cry, he came, his seed jetting onto her breasts.

Heart pounding, he collapsed to the bed at her side.

Fancy that. He, Jasper Sutton, had just failed to consummate his marriage.

Octavia had read forbidden, erotic works before. She had pored over nearly every caricature sold in London, many of which were quite lewd. But nothing could have prepared her for the conflagration which had just occurred between herself and her new husband.

And he had yet to even consummate their marriage yet.

The flesh between her thighs was still pulsing and alive, and she was basking in the warm glow of her release, her heart racing faster than a horse at full gallop. The memory of his handsome face pressed between her legs as he licked her…she did not think she would ever recover.

“I read about such things,” she said into the silence that had descended in the chamber, “but I never imagined it could be so wondrous.”

Jasper rolled to his side, head propped on one hand, his gaze burning into hers. “You read about them, minx?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Yes.”

“Of course you would have.” He slipped from the bed then and crossed the chamber, still naked.

She did not know if he meant those words as praise or censure, but as she admired the muscles in his bottom and the lean strength of his legs as he walked, she could not say she cared either way. Jasper Sutton was a handsome man. But in the nude, there was so much more of him to admire. Everything about him was sharp and powerful. Even without his clothes, he moved with an easy grace. Stopping before a washstand where a pitcher and bowl sat, he took up a cloth, made it wet, and then returned to the bed.

The moment reminded her of the evening he had tended to her scrapes after she had taken a tumble from the tree. Only, now, her ankle had healed. She had no scrapes to tend to. Only…

The remnants of his pleasure were on her skin, branding her as his.

Gently, he cleaned her with the cloth, taking extra care, it seemed, with her nipples. Slow, steady circles of the cloth until they were puckered and aching. He caught one between his thumb and forefinger and tugged.

“Then you know that we ‘ave not truly shared the marriage bed yet,” he said.

The disappearing h told her he was more profoundly affected by what had passed between them than he appeared.

He was teasing her nipple unmercifully now. He had finished cleaning her. There was no reason to continue with the cloth save one. He enjoyed touching her. Liked bringing her to such agonizing heights of desire. He was making her forget all the reasons she had to be nettled.

She shifted restlessly beneath the light swirls he made with the damp cloth over her skin. This was not enough. And the ache between her thighs returned, telling her that her body was ready for more. For everything.

Feeling bold, she reached for him, stroking down his chest. Following the trail of hair down the taut plane of his stomach to where his manhood was once more beginning to rise. Did she dare?

She dared.