over the fleece of curls covering her mons. Despite her fingers being cold, the touch brought more heat to her flesh.
More
, her body seemed to plead. She gave it, pressing two fingers into the hot slit of her quim.
That press … damned if it wasn’t both shocking and wonderful. Naturally she had to repeat the motion, and repeat it again and again, until the press became more of a slide and her fingers were slippery with fluid.
Pictures of Lord Darleston filled the dark void inside her eyelids. He lay impossibly still upon the library chaise longue. Emma stood by him listening to the soft whisper of his breaths and observing the gentle rise and fall of his chest. For a long while she simply watched him sleep, which seemed invasion enough, but the more she watched, the more she longed to trace the contours of his noble face, slide a fingertip along the bridge of his sharp nose. To begin with, her gaze remained fastened upon his head; it really wasn’t right to stare at a gentleman below the waistline– not that it had stopped her doing so earlier that day.
Emma held her palm over his chest. Even at a distance of several inches heat radiated up from his body to warm her skin. With her knuckles she brushed the deep-red pile of his coat. When he made no reaction to the contact, her bravery increased. This was how she always wanted him – passive and still. She slipped open buttons, peeled away his elaborate finery to reveal the skin beneath. She’d be like a ghost to him. Any awareness of her presence would be only on the very periphery of his senses. Yet he would still be responsive to her touch.
Soft murmurs of enjoyment passed his lips as she explored the ridges of his chest and abdomen. She ran rings around his neatly steepled nipples, traced the contours of the curious brand she’d spied on the right side of his stomach. Slowly his sighs became more abrasive as she unfastened his breeches and pulled aside the fabric to expose his loins.
Emma’s fingers curled around the imaginary staff of his erection. Supple heat filled her palm. She stroked up and down as she’d seen Lyle do. The noises Darleston made changed from sighs to mewls. Gradually his hips began to roll with the movement of her hand, but he never once opened his eyes.
If she really could make him stay as somnolent as this, then touching him would become simple. Perhaps she would go further than just using her hands. She’d lower her mouth until her lips caressed the fiery tip of his cock, and then take him fully into her mouth as Lyle had professed to have done. As long as he didn’t try and return the touch, everything was fine. Maybe she would go even further. For a moment she pictured it: straddling his lap and tentatively lowering herself over his upright prick.
The nub between her thighs grew as taut as her nipples. Threads of panic jolted through her chest as she imagined the brush of his glans against the lips of her puss. But she couldn’t seem to tear her hand away, couldn’t stop herself rubbing – couldn’t stop impaling herself.
Her whole body froze, every muscle pulled tight – so tight that they ached – then all at once she relaxed.
Emma soared. She floated in her daydream above Darleston’s body, joined to him as his prick gave up its seed. Even then his eyes remained closed, maintaining the distance between them. She licked her fingers. Lay basking in the warm languor of the afterglow, soothed and contented. Perhaps not all touch was bad, at least not her own. She’d given herself a lot of pleasure, and only the tiniest part of her regretted that the fantasy wasn’t real.
She’d never dare to touch Darleston in such a way.
Nor would the opportunity ever arise. Men like Darleston did not lie passively upon a chaise while married women caressed them until they climaxed.
Although, for all she knew of life in the capital, perhaps they did exactly that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
To Emma’s consternation, nothing good occurred the
More
, her body seemed to plead. She gave it, pressing two fingers into the hot slit of her quim.
That press … damned if it wasn’t both shocking and wonderful. Naturally she had to repeat the motion, and repeat it again and again, until the press became more of a slide and her fingers were slippery with fluid.
Pictures of Lord Darleston filled the dark void inside her eyelids. He lay impossibly still upon the library chaise longue. Emma stood by him listening to the soft whisper of his breaths and observing the gentle rise and fall of his chest. For a long while she simply watched him sleep, which seemed invasion enough, but the more she watched, the more she longed to trace the contours of his noble face, slide a fingertip along the bridge of his sharp nose. To begin with, her gaze remained fastened upon his head; it really wasn’t right to stare at a gentleman below the waistline– not that it had stopped her doing so earlier that day.
Emma held her palm over his chest. Even at a distance of several inches heat radiated up from his body to warm her skin. With her knuckles she brushed the deep-red pile of his coat. When he made no reaction to the contact, her bravery increased. This was how she always wanted him – passive and still. She slipped open buttons, peeled away his elaborate finery to reveal the skin beneath. She’d be like a ghost to him. Any awareness of her presence would be only on the very periphery of his senses. Yet he would still be responsive to her touch.
Soft murmurs of enjoyment passed his lips as she explored the ridges of his chest and abdomen. She ran rings around his neatly steepled nipples, traced the contours of the curious brand she’d spied on the right side of his stomach. Slowly his sighs became more abrasive as she unfastened his breeches and pulled aside the fabric to expose his loins.
Emma’s fingers curled around the imaginary staff of his erection. Supple heat filled her palm. She stroked up and down as she’d seen Lyle do. The noises Darleston made changed from sighs to mewls. Gradually his hips began to roll with the movement of her hand, but he never once opened his eyes.
If she really could make him stay as somnolent as this, then touching him would become simple. Perhaps she would go further than just using her hands. She’d lower her mouth until her lips caressed the fiery tip of his cock, and then take him fully into her mouth as Lyle had professed to have done. As long as he didn’t try and return the touch, everything was fine. Maybe she would go even further. For a moment she pictured it: straddling his lap and tentatively lowering herself over his upright prick.
The nub between her thighs grew as taut as her nipples. Threads of panic jolted through her chest as she imagined the brush of his glans against the lips of her puss. But she couldn’t seem to tear her hand away, couldn’t stop herself rubbing – couldn’t stop impaling herself.
Her whole body froze, every muscle pulled tight – so tight that they ached – then all at once she relaxed.
Emma soared. She floated in her daydream above Darleston’s body, joined to him as his prick gave up its seed. Even then his eyes remained closed, maintaining the distance between them. She licked her fingers. Lay basking in the warm languor of the afterglow, soothed and contented. Perhaps not all touch was bad, at least not her own. She’d given herself a lot of pleasure, and only the tiniest part of her regretted that the fantasy wasn’t real.
She’d never dare to touch Darleston in such a way.
Nor would the opportunity ever arise. Men like Darleston did not lie passively upon a chaise while married women caressed them until they climaxed.
Although, for all she knew of life in the capital, perhaps they did exactly that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
To Emma’s consternation, nothing good occurred the
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