A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin_The Debutante Files

Then she touched him. Those slight fingers wrapped around him. Her bare hand to his manhood, skin to skin. His cock pulsed and he forgot everything except sensation and mind-obliterating need.





Chapter 16


His mouth crashed over hers and she could only think that it wasn’t enough. The pressure of his lips and tongue ravaging her wasn’t enough. She mewled, writhing and wiggling under him, her hand never releasing him. She loved the feel of him. Like silk over steel in her hand. She reveled in the way he shuddered and groaned as she worked her fingers on him, rubbing her thumb over the tip of him until she felt moisture rise there to kiss her skin.

Her other hand moved up, touching his bare chest. She ran her hands over his abdomen and then higher up his chest. Because she could. Because she was free to do so. She savored the cut of heavy muscle under the warm, contracting skin. The tight nipples that shrank under her questing fingers.

“I have to touch you,” he growled. “It’s my turn.”

Before she understood fully, he slid down her body. His hands found her thighs, splaying them wider, and then his face was between them.

“What are you—”

“Ssh. Trust me. I won’t do anything you don’t like. Nothing that won’t give you pleasure.”

And then his fingers were there, sliding against her wetness, parting her. She started, startled at the hand there, touching her in ways she had never touched herself. His hand drifted up, finding and pressing on a spot that had her crying out and arching.

“There you are,” he said in a deeply satisfied voice. There was a shifting of his weight, a rustling of fabric as he moved, and then his mouth! Dear Lord, he placed his mouth on her.

She cried out, sitting up, her hands seizing his head buried between her thighs. He pressed a hand to the flat of her stomach, forcing her back down with a deep, guttural groan as he feasted on her, his mouth sucking on that tiny nub, drawing it between his lips and flaying it with his tongue. Instantly she came apart, flying into a million little pieces. He eased his mouth then, licking at the over-sensitized little button even as he slipped one finger inside her, stretching her.

“Oh, so bloody tight,” he moaned against her, his finger working in and out. In and out. Again she felt the pressure building. She panted, her fingers still flexing in his hair. He raked his teeth against that nub again and she cried, pushing herself against his mouth, greedy for more, stunned that any of this was possible. He shifted his wrist then, did something marvelous with his finger, brought it up, hitting some hidden, secret place within her, and the pressure inside her burst.

Again she shook and flew apart.

He came over her again and she felt him. The hardness of him against her thigh. Instinctively, she sought him, arching, wanting that hardness thick inside her. He dragged his mouth against her neck, biting and sucking at the tendon there. She wiggled until she felt the head of him at her opening.

“God,” he gasped. “You’re so wet. So ready.”

She nodded dumbly. Past thinking. Feeling only.

“Tell me. Ask for it,” he pleaded.

She opened her mouth. It was there. On the tip of her tongue. The engorged tip of him prodded the opening of her channel, and her eyes flew wide. His hand moved between them, and she felt him grasp himself, better positioning that part of him against her, ready to slide within.

Good God! She had not meant to go this far. No. No!

He stiffened over her, and she realized she must have uttered the words out loud.

She grabbed his wrist, her voice ringing out desperately in the air, which was thick with the smell of them. “Wait. Stop.”

He froze instantly, sucking in a deep breath.

She sat up and shoved her skirts back down over her legs. He backed away, needing the distance to stop himself from touching her, from hauling her back into his arms again. He expelled a deep breath and dragged his hands through his hair, stopping when he saw that his hands were shaking. He folded his fingers into fists and sucked in more air, reaching for restraint.

“This is too much.” She shook back the sleek fall of hair from her shoulders and pressed her hands to her cheeks as if that would somehow help her cool them. “I didn’t mean for this to go so very far.”

“A week ago I had to steal a kiss from you.” His voice shook a little as he said this, and he swallowed. “You may not believe me, but this was not my plan.”

“Of course. That was not my thought. I sent you the letter, after all, requesting your presence.”

Nodding, he inched away . . . although a part of him felt like lashing out like a petulant child at her. Had she lured him here only to torment him? If that were the case, she could count herself successful.

“And you didn’t steal it.” Her fingers brushed her swollen mouth as though still feeling him there. “Tonight . . . this was all me. I initiated this. I’m to blame.” Her throaty voice broke at that, and he looked to her sharply, wondering at the thread of emotion he heard.

“Why did you send me the note?” What had she expected? What did she want? She clearly wasn’t a girl willing to forget herself in an illicit liaison, so what was this about, then?

She scooted to the edge of the bed, curling her fingers around the side and hunching her shoulders. “I’m sorry. You must think me contrary. I merely wanted something for myself before . . .”

Her voice faded.

He moved to the edge of the bed, tucking himself back in and fastening his trousers. “Before?”

She turned her face to him. “Before I’m gone.” Her voice was hoarse and whisper-soft, as though she was afraid saying it aloud would make it happen—would make her disappear right then. “While I’m still me.”

He angled his head. She made no sense. Who else would she be? Instead of asking, he settled for: “Are you leaving Town?”

“No. Yes . . . I mean, I don’t know.” She gave her head a small shake. The black strands swished sharply. Her hand went to her hair self-consciously as though checking it, and that’s when he knew it was a wig. “Perhaps, I will. I didn’t mean . . .” A pause fell before she continued, admitting, “I’m to be wed.”

Everything came together then, clicking. “Ah. Now I understand,” he murmured, feeling unaccountably angry. He stood in one swift move and turned, towering over her. “So you wished to have a little fun first for yourself. Was that it? Or, wait.” He held up his hand. “Are you honing your skills so that you might please your husband? Learning what to do while stopping short of the full act?”

She stared up at him with her eyes wide through the eyeholes of her domino. “You are angry.” It was part statement, part question.

He knew he had no right to snap at her. There were no promises or expectations between them. Those things didn’t exist at Sodom. So she was to be married. Half the women who frequented this establishment were already married. He’d never cared about that before. Why did he care now?

Even as he asked himself this he knew. Because she was the second female to stir something in him. The second one that he could not possess. First Rosalie and now her.

She rose from the bed. “You can’t possibly understand. What would a man in your position know about being helpless and vulnerable, subject to the whim of others?”

Everything. He understood helplessness and vulnerability. In a way he would never admit. His throat tightened but he refused to give voice to the sudden dark thoughts swirling through him.