“Too deep?”
“No. No. Keep doing that.” She clutched at his shoulders, her pleasure rising rapidly toward climax.
But when West felt her clamping on him, her body tensing in readiness for completion, he forced himself to stop. Ignoring her groans and squirms, he waited until the need for release had subsided. Then he began the rhythm again, took her to the edge and retreated, and laughed softly as she whined and protested.
“West . . . I was just about to . . .” She paused, still too modest to say it aloud. He adored that.
“I know,” West whispered. “I felt it. I felt you clenching on me.” He rolled his hips, pumping slowly. He was barely aware of what he was saying, only let the words fall over her like a cascade of flower petals. “You’re like silk. Every part of you is so fine . . . so sweet. I won’t stop next time. I love to watch when you reach the peak . . . the look on your face . . . always a little surprised . . . as if it’s something you’ve never felt before. You blush the color of a wild rose, everywhere . . . your little red ears turn so hot, and your lips tremble . . . yes, just like that . . .”
He kissed her panting mouth, loving the damp, satiny insides of her lips, the little velvety tongue lapping at his. Every time he drew his cock partially out, her muscles worked frantically to close on him, tug him back inside. The delight was so intense, he was half afraid his essence was leaking from him, seeping into that lively, luscious channel. She was coming now, tightening, pulsing, milking his hard-swollen flesh, while he fought to keep every movement steady and controlled, to make it good for her. The weight of his bollocks drew up tight and heavy, his body primed for release. He held on, stroking hard and deep, making her ride the movement until she had stopped spasming.
Now it would be his turn. Except he hadn’t exactly prepared for this. He had no sheath, nothing to contain his seed.
“Phoebe,” he rasped, still thrusting, “Which pocket do you keep your handkerchiefs in?”
It took her a moment to reply. “This dress has no pockets,” she said weakly.
West went still, gritting his teeth at the sharp, protesting twinges in his groin. “You don’t have even one handkerchief?”
Looking apologetic, she shook her head.
He let out a guttural curse. Slowly he lowered her feet to the floor and eased his aching shaft out of her warm, succulent depths, his body aching in anguish.
“Why can’t you . . .” Phoebe began, and then understanding dawned. “Oh.”
Bracing his hands on the wall, West closed his eyes. “Give me a few minutes,” he said curtly.
He heard the sounds of Phoebe straightening her clothes. After a moment, he heard her say, “I think I can help.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
Strangely, Phoebe’s faintly amused voice seemed to come from below him. “I may never have seen any erotic postcards, but I’m sure there’s something I can do.”
West’s eyes opened, and he froze in amazement as he saw her kneeling between his thighs. He couldn’t make a single sound as she grasped his shaft in her hands, graceful and ladylike. Her head bent, and her beautiful mouth was on him, full lips parting carefully as she took him inside. Her tongue stroked and circled, painting wetness on the sensitive tip, and in a matter of seconds he cried out in ecstasy, delivered and overpowered by her . . . possessed by her. Owned for life.
Phoebe yawned as she came upstairs from the housekeeper’s room, where they had spent the morning going over the monthly household inventory. There had been a discussion of missing dinner napkins—two had been scorched by an inexperienced housemaid and another was suspected to have blown off the line on a windy day. A concern over the new laundry-washing mixture had been broached—too high a proportion of soda was making the linens thin. The coal bill was acceptable. The grocer’s bill had been a bit high.
The task of doing household inventory was always tedious, but it had been especially worse since Phoebe had had so little sleep the night before. West had made love to her for what had seemed to be hours, arranging her in one new position after another, exploring gently, patiently, until she’d been exhausted from too many wrenching climaxes and had begged him to stop.
Perhaps she should go up to her room for a short nap. The house was quiet. West was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone somewhere, or . . . no, he hadn’t. She paused in the main hall as she caught a glimpse of his lean, powerful form in the front receiving room. He stood at one of the windows, looking out at the main drive with his head slightly tilted in that way he had. The sight him of him made her feel warm all over and sent a quick flutter of happiness through her stomach.
Walking quietly in her thin-soled slippers, she stole into the receiving room and sneaked up behind him while he was still at the window. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her breasts against his back and whispered near his ear, “Come with me, and we’ll—”
The room spun around her with stunning force. Before she could even finish the sentence, she had been seized and pinned against the wall. One of his hands clasped her wrists over her head, while the other was drawn back as if he were about to strike her. Oddly, the sight of that lethal upraised fist didn’t frighten her nearly as much as his eyes, hard and bright like the gleam of light on a knife blade.
Not West, her disoriented brain told her.
But this hostile stranger’s physical similarities to West alarmed her even more.
A high-pitched yelp jolted from her as soon as her shoulders encountered the wall.