A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

Lit a fire within him, more like.

Toby was burning for her like he had burned for no woman in his life. The air in the carriage was arid with heat. All his plans for hours of slow, sensual teasing? Evaporated. He wanted her, as soon as he could possibly have her.

And apparently—miraculously—she felt the same.

She gripped his arm, pressing her body to his as the coach lurched into motion. The soft swell of her breast against his biceps was pure, sweet torture.

“How long will it take us to get home?” The throaty pitch of her voice sank straight to his groin.

Toby cleared his throat. “Ten minutes… perhaps fifteen.”

She fell silent, still clutching his arm. He clenched his hands at his sides to keep from mauling her. She had asked him to take her home, after all. Take her home and make love to her properly. Not sweep her off for a crude, sweaty tup in the coach.

Suddenly, she launched herself into his lap, hiking up her red silk skirts to straddle his hips. The sound of fabric ripping registered in his brain just an instant before his wife’s husky whisper: “I can’t wait that long.”

Oh, thank God.

Toby scarcely recognized the woman tugging impatiently at his cravat, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, scraping her teeth along his jaw. Was this truly his solemn, saintly wife? She was frenzied with passion and desire. She wanted him, just as desperately as he wanted her. They were fighting to get closer, kiss deeper, expose more skin to press against hot, damp skin. They ceased the tussle just long enough to unite against the common enemy of her skirts, hiking yards of silk and petticoats up to her waist until the fabric settled around them in a shimmering cloud. He grasped her hips and pulled her feminine core flush against his aching erection. A fierce groan rose from his chest. Straightening her spine, Isabel rode him eagerly, rocking her hips against his hard length again and again. Even through the layers of his smalls and trousers, she felt warm and soft and absolutely amazing.

So. Damn. Good.

She leaned forward, grasping the seatback behind him for leverage. And now her br**sts were thrust in his face with each rolling tilt of her hips. Yes, this passionate, lustful woman was indeed his wife. Toby would know these magnificent br**sts anywhere. He pressed his face into her cle**age, inhaling deeply, then stroked over their exposed tops with his tongue.

“Delicious,” he murmured. “You taste of champagne.”

“Yes,” she gasped, straightening in his lap and pulling her bosom out of his tongue’s reach. His disappointment was short-lived, however, for she grasped her bodice in both hands and eased it downward, aiding the process with erotic, wriggling motions of her shoulders. “Yes, taste them. Touch them.”

Her br**sts finally sprang free, in all their bounteous, dark-tipped glory, and Toby thought he would spill in his trousers for the first time since the age of fifteen. He gratefully caressed, lifted, suckled, and she rode him faster, grinding her hips against his in a frantic rhythm. She gave a little cry, and he knew by the timbre of it that her peak was near. It was tempting to slide a hand between them and stroke her over the edge. Better yet, wrench open his fall and slide into her just at the moment she came. But instead he held back. This time, he didn’t want to bring her to pleasure. He wanted to observe her as she pleasured herself. There was nothing more arousing than the feel of her riding him, the acceleration of her breath against his ear. He allowed her to set her own pace, learn the rhythm and pressure and precise angle that would send her into bliss.

She did it all on her own, his passionate lover, his beautiful wife. But as her climax rocked her, it was his name she called.

And that was when Toby knew himself to be the luckiest man on earth. Isabel was still quivering in his lap and breathing hard against his neck, when the carriage rolled to a halt. He helped her adjust her bodice and skirts as best she could, offering his coat for her modesty as they alighted from the coach. She ducked her head as they entered the house, avoiding the curious gaze of the servants. Toby sent them away with a pointed glance.

“Look at me,” she whispered as they entered the foyer, indicating the wine-stained, bedraggled condition of her gown. “What a state I’m in. Perhaps I should clean up, before …”

“Before?” he prompted, a grin spreading across his face.

“You know what I mean.” She blushed.