Page 46 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

“What pleasure?”

“The pleasure of man and woman, together.” Or men and men, or men with several women, or women with any combination of partners; the pleasures offered in Dark Lane were varied, and many illicit to the light of day. But she wanted Joseph to think of pleasure and her, and she could tell by the sudden arrest of motion that he was.

She hoped.

“Until you marry. Where will you find your pleasure?”

She imagined him pleasuring himself, alone in his study with his books spread out before him and the physical need emptying his mind, his hand around his cock the way she had held him. Or alone in his bed, thinking of sinking into a woman as he worked himself, or imagining a woman’s mouth around him.

Perhaps her mouth. A bright hot bead formed between her legs, that ache she felt so often around him, but which was so much stronger now that he’d kissed her.

“I—” He scowled. “This is not an appropriate topic of discussion.”

“The innkeep thinks I am your mistress. She thinks you want me so much that you are bringing me from London to your new home in Cornwall because you cannot bear to be parted from me for long.”

“I…” He flailed again. His scowl darkened. He set his jaw, a muscle flexing in those cheeks, the skin drawn tight over the bones in his anger. “That is none of her business.”

“Don’t you want it? Don’t you want me?”

It was like she didn’t know herself, or was watching herself from a distance. Who was this wanton woman? She fled from men. She didn’t beg for them to swive her.

Her throat pulled tight with longing, with desperation. She had to have him in her arms, she had to be certain he wanted her, or she would die. She was as sure of this as her need for air. She could not let him leave this room without touching her, or she would die.

She rose. He put down his utensils. He watched her like she was a wild animal he thought might spring and tear out his throat. His gaze skimmed her hips as she walked slowly around the table toward him, then he stared at her breasts as she came to stand before him.

He licked his lips, and she knew she was right. He wanted her. She wanted him. She would bring him to her, finally. He would hold and love and care for her, and for a few moments in her life, an hour, an entire night, she would be beloved and cherished and held and safe.

He would erase the memories of the sterile scraping that had been her marriage, and she would know what it was meant to be like between a man and woman, at last. He would give her memories that were warm and new and beautiful, and she could hold them to her through all the long, lonely days that would follow once he sent her away.

She pressed at his shoulder and he turned in his chair, but before he could rise, she pushed his shoulder again, keeping him in his seat. She lifted her leg and straddled his lap and was gratified at the way he sucked in air between his teeth.

He was hard for her already; she felt the bulge against her inner thigh. She shifted so the head of his cock in his breeches was against that aching part of her, and she didn’t bother to stop the low, begging cry that came out of her mouth. Instead she bent her head and let her whimper fall against his lips.

He kissed her as if he were a man released from prison and she were air and light and food altogether. He kissed her as if she were the first woman he’d ever kissed.

He kissed her as if this were his last meal and she was the memory he would take to the executioner’s block, and he wanted every bit of life and passion he could consume before the axe fell.

She planted her hands on either side of his face, palms brushing his soft sideburns, his softer skin. Such soft skin for a man. So gentle, he was. Yet when she kissed him harder he met her, something ferocious in his need, and waves of greedy heat rolled over her.

As a child she’d loved to wade out from the beach into the water until the waves broke over her head, thrilled by that moment when the power caught her and she was lifted off her feet. When she might be knocked down and drowned, or rolled into shore like flotsam, or carried like wreckage out to sea. Not knowing her fate for that brief instant, if she would be carried or crash: it was the same when Joseph Illingworth kissed her.

He brushed his hands over her hips, then slid them up the sides of her body, and she swayed like a reed caught in the wind. She was lost, and she did not care.

“Kiss me,” she demanded hoarsely.

He slid his tongue into her mouth and it was better this time, a sureness to his actions. He didn’t plunder like he had before. He nibbled. He probed. He sipped. He tasted of butter and parsley, and she was starved for him.

“More,” she whispered. “More.”

He dragged his mouth across her cheek to her ear, biting at her earlobe and sending shivers of delight down her arms. Her nipples shrank into hard buttons. His breath was hot and sweet with wine and he moved his mouth down her jaw, nipping, nuzzling, and she shuddered. She pressed her hips against him, rubbing herself against his length, as wanton as a cat pushing into the hand that pet her. He groaned, and the wave lifted her. She was well and truly at sea.

His mouth moved to the tops of her breasts, his tongue tasting her skin and laying down trails of fire. She arched her back in surrender. She’d left off a zone or indeed any covering for precisely this reason, so he might look as much as he liked. She had also pinned her bodice loosely, to provide him ease of access.

Nevertheless as he parted the fabric, pins went flying, and she didn’t care. Pins were dear, and she would hunt them all up later as she couldn’t afford to buy more of them, but for now it was more important that her bodice was open and Joseph’s clever, soft hands were scooping her breasts free from her shift and then yes, yes, his mouth was on her, his tongue swirled around a nipple, then his lips as he pulled her into his mouth and sucked. A bright hot arc of light soared through her, from breast to belly to that place between her legs that was hungry and aching for him.

“Joseph,” she moaned. “Harder. Harder.”

He obeyed, and she gave a soft cry as the pleasure mounted, quickly, so quickly. She canted her hips and rolled against the hard length of him, growing harder still, and let the wave lift and lift her. Joseph, kissing her, so greedy with the clutch of his hands and mouth. Straining with desire for her.