When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella by Megan Frampton Page B

it all felt like? That thing he’d never expected to have?
    It seemed she understood what he meant, because she didn’t pull away or react as though he hadn’t just opened his heart to her. Because he had, oh he had, as much as he was able to.
    That was item number six, wasn’t it?
    “Then I suppose we should agree that this is what we are here to do, and you should kiss me. Now,” she added, as though either one of them would delay it.
    He had never followed orders before—item number seven; at this rate he might have to move on to count numbers on his toes—but he did now, lowering his head to hers as he slid his hands around her waist, pulling her to him so their bodies pressed together.
    His cock was already erect, and when it made contact with her stomach she made a soft moan in her throat that told him she liked what she felt.
    And he did as well. Except there were far too many layers of clothing between them.
    His fingers moved to the back of her gown and began to undo the buttons, still kissing her deeply, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, sucking on her tongue, coaxing more of those low growls from her throat.
    Meanwhile, he’d gotten enough of the buttons done so he could slide his hand onto her back, now covered in one less layer of fabric. He slid his fingers lower, onto her arse, and squeezed, which pressed more of him into her.
    She broke the kiss, gasping, a look of impatience on her face. “We need to remove our clothing because I will expire if I cannot feel you, all of you, on all of me.”
    He very much appreciated how direct and honest she was at this moment.
    Both of them began to undo buttons and slide fabric off shoulders and hips, and flung clothing onto the floor as though nothing else mattered but the speed of the task.
    Which, judging by how he felt, and how he presumed she felt, was the truth.
    She took longer than he did, of course, so he got onto the bed and watched her.
    She glanced at him from under her lashes, a knowing, sensual smile on her mouth. “Touch yourself,” she said, her motions slowing as she slid her undergarment off her shoulder, revealing one breast.
    “Touch my—”
    She licked her lips. “Yes, touch your cock. Stroke it how you want me to stroke it.”
    His breath caught at hearing her say the word, a word he’d never heard anyone say before, much less a woman. A lady, even, despite her not having a title. She was elegant and kind and funny and lovely and generous and honest. That was a lady.
    Matthew reached around himself and began to stroke up and down his shaft, still watching her. And she was watching him, still undressing, but slower, as though putting on a show.
    She was bared to the waist now, and as he kept sliding his hand up and down himself, she pushed the fabric down her legs and onto the floor, leaving her entirely naked.
    And not on the bed with him.
    “Get up here.” He barely recognized his voice, it was so low and raspy.
    She crawled onto the bed on her hands and knees, her gorgeous, full breasts swaying, her gaze locked on his face.
    “Now what do you want?” she asked in a whisper. “Do you want me to touch you? Do you want me to lick you? Or maybe I could find my feather duster and show you how very much not a housekeeper I am?”
    “Yes,” he said in a groan, reaching for her, claiming her mouth in a ruthless, savage kiss.
    She held onto his shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed so she lay on top of him, his cock nestled between her thighs, her breasts pressing into his chest.
    It was too much, and yet it wasn’t enough.
    He ran his hands down her back and onto the soft curves of her arse, then back up again, loving how she was touching him as well, her hands caressing his neck, his shoulders, sliding down his arms and then grasping his arse, squeezing it. She was moving her body slightly atop his, her breasts rubbing against his chest, her mound against his erection.
    He wanted to devour her, he wanted to know what it felt