Thunderstruck, Mercy heard Damien moving about, his clothing rustling, his exhalations drifting around the studio.
Weakly rising to her elbow, she opened her eyes to find him standing three feet away, his trousers in a neat fold on the table, leaving him in only his drawers. She examined his long body with a thoroughness he allowed, her gaze halting at the protrusion of his sex. He was larger than Pierre, that was certain.
“Oh,” she breathed, panic and anticipation battling inside her. His spectacles were still clasped in her hand, and she gestured lamely with them. “You, that is, I…”
His eyes were hooded, his lips held in a tight line. “I can finish another way, wait for you to recover. Truthfully, my lovely minx, I’m likely to last mere minutes, if I’m able to hold on that long.” He shrugged, a hint of the vulnerability she loved peeking through. “Since this isn’t a place I’ve ever gone, perhaps that’s best—”
“I want you,” Mercy said in a clear voice. Rising to a sit, she held out her arm. “I always have. If this is our time, I’m taking it. You just showed me the stars, DeWitt, and I want to show them to you.”
She only prayed one night was enough to last a lifetime.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHERE A SMITTEN MAN LETS FATE TAKE OVER
Damien knew what to do. That wasn’t the problem.
As any academic would, he’d read everything he could get his hands on. And, in the service of science and lust, had tried everything but.
However, this, he decided with a rattle in his chest that he feared meant things had slipped beyond his control, wasn’t about science. Even desire stood in second place next to…feelings. Truthfully, what was happening in Mercy’s surprisingly romantic flat was nothing like those other instances where lust had overridden discomfort long enough for him to pleasure and be pleasured.
That was before. In the past. Gone.
Before he’d seen Mercy again. Before he’d looked into those sea-blue eyes and witnessed the man he wanted to be reflected back. Before he’d talked with her, studied her artwork—her genius—a label he was often handed and found trite to the extreme even if it fit.
And, oh, the past was entirely washed away by today.
Her quim pressed against his lips, her body pulsing as she released around his fingers and his tongue, those breathy sighs sparking a fire inside him. That gorgeous mass of ginger hair tumbling over them.
He could tell her but never would, that he’d nearly come with her.
Which would have been an embarrassing first.
Mercy crooked her finger in a come-hither motion, her smile seven shades of devious. “Are you going to refuse me when we’ve just gotten started?”
He laughed, his breath catching, the taste of her still lingering on his lips. “If you believe that was ‘just getting started,’ I think I’m about to be the happiest man alive.”
Teasing, she grinned and stretched, not the least bashful about being naked before him. The body hidden beneath those tattered gowns was shockingly perfect. Slender yet shapely, with breasts a touch larger than her slim frame required. Bully for him. “Then come be happy with me, DeWitt.”
“Come being the operative word, minx,” he whispered and crossed to her.
She sat up when he reached the settee, and he could finally see the nerves shimmering around her. And he realized, not without fear, that he didn’t merely want her, he liked her.
How far was fondness from the island of love his brother Cort had stranded himself on?
Mercy laughed and rose to meet him. “Quit frowning, or I’ll think you’re regretting your decision to spend the day in Fitzrovia.”
“What I’m regretting is how much I like you,” he uttered, then cursed as the truth settled between like a toad. Thoughts rushing his brain wasn’t a new sensation, although he’d found a way, with maturity, to control them.
She popped her wrist over her mouth but not before her amusement spilled free. “Aren’t men supposed to like the women they dally with?”
He seized a strand of her incredible hair and brought it to his nose, drawing the scent of lavender into his soul. “It’s not the point, minx. I can’t even recall most of their names.” When she started to pout, her lips curling in a way that meant he’d said something he shouldn’t, he pulled her into the warm cove of his body, and lowered his head, bent on distracting her. “You are my one and only, Mercy Ainsworth,” he whispered against her lips. “My first.”
The statement hit him squarely in the heart.
To hide his reaction and stop waiting for hers, Damien cradled her jaw and drew her into a kiss meant to displace reason. Tongues clashing, using all they’d learned about each other, they tumbled into the abyss. Impatient, Mercy leaned into him, rubbing her bountiful breasts across his chest. Her nipples were peaked, calling for his touch. He cupped, squeezed, thumbing the rigid nub while she surrounded their kiss with her moans. Urging him on, she tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged—an act that, like before, had his balls twitching, his body flooding with sensation.
Mercy wrestled with his drawers, freeing his cock. Her touch was untried but so passionate, he was swept under within seconds. They rocked together, grinding, groaning, exploring. When he loved, loved, exploring—each new piece of her a wonder, each new piece of him a revelation. The sensitive skin beneath her ear that made her squirm, the spot on the inside of her thigh that made her sigh. Her folds were moist, dewy, from their adventure on the settee, plump and ready.
