it.”
Appearing positively infatuated, he peered down at her, and she couldn’t deny how amazing it was to have his attention focused on her. No one had ever looked at her as he did, as if she was unique and splendid.
He stepped to the bench and sat down, and he dragged her down with him and began to kiss her. His lips covered her own, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers in her hair. She’d pinned it up for the party, and he yanked at the combs, scattering them on the ground. The long tresses fell in a golden wave.
He lifted and turned her so she was on her knees, straddling him, her skirt rucked up, their loins touching. The position was naughty and thrilling, and as his hands drifted lower to clasp her buttocks, her spirit soared with ecstasy.
As he drew her female parts across his male ones, sparks of desire shot through her. She was electrified, stunned by sensation. He meandered upward to her bosom, to massage her breast, and the bodily titillation he generated was so stirring that she moaned aloud.
Chuckling, he nibbled under her chin, down her neck, to her chest.
“Do you know what transpires,” he asked, “between a man and a woman when they make love?”
“I have a vague notion.”
“It’s very physical.”
“I had heard that it was.”
He rooted to her cleavage, and through the material of her gown, he bit at her nipple. Her moan became a gasp.
“I want you,” he claimed. “I want you as a husband wants his wife.”
He pulled her loins more tightly to his, and he flexed against her. The friction of their clothes rubbing, of their private areas being crushed together, was too exciting. A pressure was building inside her, and it was arousing and frightening, as if she might explode with pleasure.
“What are you doing?” she inquired.
“I’m giving you a taste of how it can be for us.”
“I won’t be your mistress.”
“So you’ve said, but I’m hoping to change your mind.”
Somehow, without her being aware, he’d pushed down her bodice, so her breast was exposed to his eager mouth. He latched on to her nipple with no fabric to serve as a barrier.
At the same time, his hand had slipped under her skirt, and his fingers glided into her feminine sheath. She should have protested or stopped him, but she was too surprised to complain. She hadn’t known that a man would do such a thing to a woman, that the shocking caress would feel just right.
His fingers fit perfectly, as if her body had been created for him to fondle her in precisely that way. He stroked her and stroked her, driving her to an exhilarating precipice, and something in her seemed to shatter.
She cried out with a joy that went on and on, until she feared that it would never end. Finally, she reached a sort of peak, and she floated down, safely caught in his arms.
He was very smug, and he laughed.
“What...was that?” she stammered when she could talk again.
“It’s called the little death .”
On hearing the phrase, she shuddered and tried to move away from him, but he wouldn’t release her.
“Is it...is it...a normal occurrence?” she queried, terrified that there might be something hideously wrong with her.
“It’s very, very normal,” he assured her, and she breathed a sigh of relief while wondering what she’d set in motion.
Was the behavior addicting? Would she grow to crave it like a dangerous opiate?
Her dress was in disarray, her hair a total mess, so she wouldn’t be able to return to the party. She’d have to creep up the servants’ stairs to her bedchamber, would have to pray that no one saw her.
She felt happy and decadent, in awe of him and what he’d done to her. She wanted him to do it again—at once!—wanted him to show her more of his delicious debauchery, and she decided that if there was a road to Hell, she was swiftly marching down it, but she didn’t care.
She didn’t care about anything.
He was lost in thought, running a lazy hand up and down her back.
She
Appearing positively infatuated, he peered down at her, and she couldn’t deny how amazing it was to have his attention focused on her. No one had ever looked at her as he did, as if she was unique and splendid.
He stepped to the bench and sat down, and he dragged her down with him and began to kiss her. His lips covered her own, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers in her hair. She’d pinned it up for the party, and he yanked at the combs, scattering them on the ground. The long tresses fell in a golden wave.
He lifted and turned her so she was on her knees, straddling him, her skirt rucked up, their loins touching. The position was naughty and thrilling, and as his hands drifted lower to clasp her buttocks, her spirit soared with ecstasy.
As he drew her female parts across his male ones, sparks of desire shot through her. She was electrified, stunned by sensation. He meandered upward to her bosom, to massage her breast, and the bodily titillation he generated was so stirring that she moaned aloud.
Chuckling, he nibbled under her chin, down her neck, to her chest.
“Do you know what transpires,” he asked, “between a man and a woman when they make love?”
“I have a vague notion.”
“It’s very physical.”
“I had heard that it was.”
He rooted to her cleavage, and through the material of her gown, he bit at her nipple. Her moan became a gasp.
“I want you,” he claimed. “I want you as a husband wants his wife.”
He pulled her loins more tightly to his, and he flexed against her. The friction of their clothes rubbing, of their private areas being crushed together, was too exciting. A pressure was building inside her, and it was arousing and frightening, as if she might explode with pleasure.
“What are you doing?” she inquired.
“I’m giving you a taste of how it can be for us.”
“I won’t be your mistress.”
“So you’ve said, but I’m hoping to change your mind.”
Somehow, without her being aware, he’d pushed down her bodice, so her breast was exposed to his eager mouth. He latched on to her nipple with no fabric to serve as a barrier.
At the same time, his hand had slipped under her skirt, and his fingers glided into her feminine sheath. She should have protested or stopped him, but she was too surprised to complain. She hadn’t known that a man would do such a thing to a woman, that the shocking caress would feel just right.
His fingers fit perfectly, as if her body had been created for him to fondle her in precisely that way. He stroked her and stroked her, driving her to an exhilarating precipice, and something in her seemed to shatter.
She cried out with a joy that went on and on, until she feared that it would never end. Finally, she reached a sort of peak, and she floated down, safely caught in his arms.
He was very smug, and he laughed.
“What...was that?” she stammered when she could talk again.
“It’s called the little death .”
On hearing the phrase, she shuddered and tried to move away from him, but he wouldn’t release her.
“Is it...is it...a normal occurrence?” she queried, terrified that there might be something hideously wrong with her.
“It’s very, very normal,” he assured her, and she breathed a sigh of relief while wondering what she’d set in motion.
Was the behavior addicting? Would she grow to crave it like a dangerous opiate?
Her dress was in disarray, her hair a total mess, so she wouldn’t be able to return to the party. She’d have to creep up the servants’ stairs to her bedchamber, would have to pray that no one saw her.
She felt happy and decadent, in awe of him and what he’d done to her. She wanted him to do it again—at once!—wanted him to show her more of his delicious debauchery, and she decided that if there was a road to Hell, she was swiftly marching down it, but she didn’t care.
She didn’t care about anything.
He was lost in thought, running a lazy hand up and down her back.
She
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