The Earl's Mistress by Liz Carlyle Page B

he might tear something.
    “Good Lord,” he rasped, “are you a virgin?”
    “N-no,” she whispered. “Just . . . not good at this.”
    “Oh, you are very good at this.” Reassured, he pushed inside another fraction and felt her silken passage give, but only slightly.
    “Isabella,” he said, sliding one finger between her slick folds, “have you ever reached orgasm?”
    She opened her eyes and looked at him blankly. Her inky hair was like a dark, silken waterfall across the white of the bedding, her breasts puckered into tiny knots.
    She had answered his question, he realized.
    He should not have been surprised; it was a common failing of husbands. But Isabella should have engendered a near-slavish devotion in any ordinary man. Indeed, he could feel a stirring of it himself—and he did not like it.
    Drawing in his breath, he pushed himself deeper but did not drag himself fully over her. Instead, he stroked her sweet folds, then began to lightly circle her nub again, this time with the ball of his thumb, pushing his cock deeper only when she relaxed enough to permit it.
    After a time, the pace of her breath shifted. Her tongue darted out, lightly touching the corner of her mouth. Over and over he stroked, until her hands went flat against the counterpane and her head tipped back. He began to thrust inside her slowly, ratcheting up her need as he kept up his delicate ministrations.
    Suddenly Isabella’s eyes closed and her hands clawed into the bedcovering, fisting up great knots of it as her belly went taut. “Ah—ah—ah—”
    Her cries were more breath than sound, and he knew she hung on that sweet, precarious edge. He thrust and thrust again, then watched as she collapsed into sensual bliss and slid down into a blinding release.
    When he withdrew to shuck his remaining clothes and climb over her, Isabella was still shaking. So was he, truth be told.
    Turning her onto her side, he cupped his body around hers and reached for the jar of unguent. She heaved a little sob; a sort of sigh, really—and out of gratitude, he prayed.
    He kissed her lightly on the shoulder. “There, Isabella,” he murmured, rubbing the soothing oils into her buttocks, “it’s done, love.”
    Another rough sigh went shuddering through her.
    “So beautiful,” he murmured. “Such a good girl.”
    She had drawn her knees up a little and did not look at him. The pink marks were no longer visible across her bottom, and her breath had returned to normal. Still, he felt a little uneasy—but not enough to wilt his raging cockstand.
    “Roll onto your belly, love,” he whispered. “I’m not finished with you.”
    She nodded, her hair scrubbing the pillow. The morning sun was slanting through the window now, and as she turned, he caught something like a diamond glistening in her lashes. Not a tear, he thought—for was a tear truly a tear if it had not been shed?—and in the urgency of the moment, he did not question it.
    Gently, he pushed a pillow under her hips, urged her legs apart, then knelt behind her.
    “Up on your knees a little, love,” he whispered.
    Isabella rose, bracing herself on her hands, sensing instinctively what he wanted.
    She was utterly open to him now as he pushed his throbbing cock back into her passage. He thrust hard and fast on that first stroke, intent upon finishing his business with what should have been practiced efficiency.
    But it was not.
    It was exquisite, and he did not want it to stop.
    He felt himself slide deep on another long, perfect stroke, her womanly scent washing over him, and suddenly something altered. His pace hitched, then slowed. He looked down at her—not the woman who’d slapped him and tormented his dreams but Isabella, his lover.
    He knew it was a romantic and silly notion even as he felt himself being drawn into her, drawn into that moment, melting into her. And strangely, he let the moment go. He watched her sweetly familiar profile and felt no need to hasten it. On and on