A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man by Susan Donovan, Celeste Bradley Page B

one foot to the other. I twisted my hands in the way that so frustrated my aunt. I fidgeted.
    He folded his arms and watched me.
    Finally I could take no more. “What are you looking at?”
    “When you fidget, your breasts jiggle most enticingly. I was merely enjoying the show.”
    I looked down to realize with horror that my restlessness had caused the curtain of my dark hair to part over my breasts, displaying them quite thoroughly.
    “I especially like the way your nipples thrust forward so impudently.” His voice had changed, going from husky whisper to male growl. “They are very pink. They will redden somewhat when I suck them.”
    Oh. I wanted him to suck them. I wanted him to suck them hard, to pull them into his hot mouth and tug at them until I screamed his name.
    I didn’t know his name.
    “‘Sir’ will do for now,” he said when I asked. “The Swan told me that your name is Ophelia.”
    “Yes.” Don’t think about nipple-sucking. I can’t help it. Don’t. It was too late, however. I felt a rush of dampness between my thighs. I cleared my throat. “Sir—”
    “Yes, Ophelia?” He came close enough to brush my hair back over my shoulders, although he never took his eyes off my rigid nipples. His hands hovered just over my breasts, so that I felt the heat of his palms radiating against my chilled skin. So far he had not touched me other than my chin.
    I wanted him to. “Sir, w—will you not remove your clothing as well?”
    His eyes rose to meet mine. “In a hurry to beg for my cock, Ophelia?”
    His eyes were dark as night. Onyx eyes, like an Egyptian god.
    Or demon.
    I truly didn’t care which. Perhaps a demon made for a better companion down a path of sin.
    Then his hot hands fell softly onto my bare shoulders and I gasped. He moved slowly, circling me clockwise, never letting his hands leave my skin, sliding them over me, over my shoulder and neck and breastbone. Down my arm and up my inner arm. Around my waist and down over my hip. His hot palms left trails of fire on my flesh, burning memories of sensation. I almost expected them to glow in the dimness.
    No one had ever touched me thus. I had never had a nanny or a governess. My mother had expected independence at a young age, so no one had even seen me in the bath since I was ten. I had washed and dressed and tended myself—so my skin was as virgin as the rest of me.
    He despoiled my skin. He raided me as thoroughly as any Viking horde. He touched me everywhere, slipping his palms and fingers down over my belly, circling the globes of my buttocks, lifting and cupping my tight, tingling breasts, ravaging my innocent flesh with his hot, gentle stroking hands. Around and around me he moved, teasing, touching, smoothing. My body, my face, he even ran his fingers through my hair. My skin awoke as it had never before.
    And it woke hungry . Like a caged creature too long unfed, it wanted more and yet more.
    I was merely the prisoner inside the aroused vessel. I trembled, trapped in his web of teasing, taunting pleasure. His hands slipped between my thighs, but didn’t reach my dampened nethers.
    Cunte. My dampened cunte.
    The words mattered, I realized now. I would beg him eventually and it was important that my fevered mind find the right words to satisfy my starving flesh.
    When his hot hands slid past the undefended parting of my buttocks, I closed my eyes. Yes. At last.
    He teased at the lips of my cunte. His fingers stroked up and down the slippery parting but did not enter, though I admit I did try to press back into his touch. He found a small, sensitive area just behind that that even I had never explored. The tip of his index finger, slippery from the exploration of the lips of my cunte, dipped swiftly into my anus, making me gasp and shudder with surprising pleasure, then moved on, up and over me once more.
    Nothing was sacred. No inch of me was left pure. His touch invaded. It invited. It provoked and offended and aroused. I was