At least, well, he could do that. But no more. Well, more, of course, because he couldn’t leave her like that, could he? “I’d make you come so hard, Harry,” he whispered.
“You … what?” she whispered, her brow knit in confusion.
Roger was so shocked for a moment he just stared at her. She’d never? Surely not. “Sexual pleasure, Harry,” he said. “It’s just another name for when you climax.” She just looked more confused. He cursed her dead husband again. “How do you feel right now, Harry?” He leaned closer to her and whispered harshly. “Are you excited? Aching?” She’d leaned toward him, as well, until their hat brims were almost touching. “Between your—”
“I say,” a voice called out from behind them, “could you move? You’re blocking the path.”
Roger jerked back and glared at the riders behind them. The ladies looked scandalized while the gentlemen all looked envious. The one who’d spoken had his lips pursed with disapproval as if he’d caught them humping right there in the park. Roger was about to give that damn prude a piece of his mind, when Harry pulled on her reins next to him and her horse danced to the side. Roger disdained giving the fellow an apology. He followed Harry at a sedate pace until he was able to reach out and grab her elbow. She stopped, but refused to look at him. Very calmly he walked his horse around so that they were facing each other, yet side by side.
“I can’t be sorry for telling the truth,” Roger told her, perhaps more sharply than he should.
When she turned to him it wasn’t anger or embarrassment causing her blush. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” she told him. “I want you to make me climax.”
Even though he knew she had only a vague idea what she was talking about, to hear Harry say that out loud made Roger’s arousal that much stronger. “If I touched you right now,” he told her, “it would happen.” Harry immediately held out her hand to him. Roger laughed, but even he could hear the desperation in it. “No, darling. I’m not that good. I’d need to touch something a little more … personal.” He knew he couldn’t, however, not here in the park in the middle of the day. So instead he took the hand she offered in both of his, turned it over, slid her glove down just a bit and reverently kissed her bare wrist, touching the tip of his tongue to the pulse beating beneath her fragrant skin.
Her sharp, indrawn breath was unsteady. “You’re right,” she said, her voice even lower than usual, a husky invitation that scrambled his wits like too much whiskey. “That’s nice, but not enough.”
Roger laughed again and straightened in the saddle. “I’ll try harder next time,” he promised ruefully. He was reluctant to let go of her hand, which seemed altogether silly to him. They couldn’t very well ride their horses stuck together like that.
“Well, well,” a woman’s voice purred off to his right. “Isn’t this sweet? Why just the other day, Templeton, I could have sworn you said you were afraid Lady Mercer would never give up her ridiculous pursuit of you. And now here the two of you are, as cozy as can be.”
Harry’s hand clutched his for an unguarded moment, but her face gave nothing away. “Good afternoon, Lady Maxwell, and Mr. Faircloth,” she said politely. “We didnot see you there.”
For his part, Roger refused to act either guilty for being caught kissing Harry’s hand so intimately, or happy to see his old lover Lady Anne Maxwell and Harry’s repugnant Mr. Faircloth. He took his time lowering Harry’s hand and finally letting go, his back to the interfering duo the entire time. Harry was frantically rolling her eyes and shifting her head ever so slightly toward the interlopers, trying to get him to play polite. He made sure by his resigned sigh and the exaggerated turn of his head that they knew he was doing it only to make Harry happy. A conversation now, however, had the
“You … what?” she whispered, her brow knit in confusion.
Roger was so shocked for a moment he just stared at her. She’d never? Surely not. “Sexual pleasure, Harry,” he said. “It’s just another name for when you climax.” She just looked more confused. He cursed her dead husband again. “How do you feel right now, Harry?” He leaned closer to her and whispered harshly. “Are you excited? Aching?” She’d leaned toward him, as well, until their hat brims were almost touching. “Between your—”
“I say,” a voice called out from behind them, “could you move? You’re blocking the path.”
Roger jerked back and glared at the riders behind them. The ladies looked scandalized while the gentlemen all looked envious. The one who’d spoken had his lips pursed with disapproval as if he’d caught them humping right there in the park. Roger was about to give that damn prude a piece of his mind, when Harry pulled on her reins next to him and her horse danced to the side. Roger disdained giving the fellow an apology. He followed Harry at a sedate pace until he was able to reach out and grab her elbow. She stopped, but refused to look at him. Very calmly he walked his horse around so that they were facing each other, yet side by side.
“I can’t be sorry for telling the truth,” Roger told her, perhaps more sharply than he should.
When she turned to him it wasn’t anger or embarrassment causing her blush. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” she told him. “I want you to make me climax.”
Even though he knew she had only a vague idea what she was talking about, to hear Harry say that out loud made Roger’s arousal that much stronger. “If I touched you right now,” he told her, “it would happen.” Harry immediately held out her hand to him. Roger laughed, but even he could hear the desperation in it. “No, darling. I’m not that good. I’d need to touch something a little more … personal.” He knew he couldn’t, however, not here in the park in the middle of the day. So instead he took the hand she offered in both of his, turned it over, slid her glove down just a bit and reverently kissed her bare wrist, touching the tip of his tongue to the pulse beating beneath her fragrant skin.
Her sharp, indrawn breath was unsteady. “You’re right,” she said, her voice even lower than usual, a husky invitation that scrambled his wits like too much whiskey. “That’s nice, but not enough.”
Roger laughed again and straightened in the saddle. “I’ll try harder next time,” he promised ruefully. He was reluctant to let go of her hand, which seemed altogether silly to him. They couldn’t very well ride their horses stuck together like that.
“Well, well,” a woman’s voice purred off to his right. “Isn’t this sweet? Why just the other day, Templeton, I could have sworn you said you were afraid Lady Mercer would never give up her ridiculous pursuit of you. And now here the two of you are, as cozy as can be.”
Harry’s hand clutched his for an unguarded moment, but her face gave nothing away. “Good afternoon, Lady Maxwell, and Mr. Faircloth,” she said politely. “We didnot see you there.”
For his part, Roger refused to act either guilty for being caught kissing Harry’s hand so intimately, or happy to see his old lover Lady Anne Maxwell and Harry’s repugnant Mr. Faircloth. He took his time lowering Harry’s hand and finally letting go, his back to the interfering duo the entire time. Harry was frantically rolling her eyes and shifting her head ever so slightly toward the interlopers, trying to get him to play polite. He made sure by his resigned sigh and the exaggerated turn of his head that they knew he was doing it only to make Harry happy. A conversation now, however, had the
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