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With her mouth forced open, she found it difficult to swallow. The glint in his eyes called to that desire low and hot in her belly.
“Lie back.”
She complied. After all, she had offered to attend the Chateau Follet with him and agreed to three nights of debauchery, albeit she had not expected the wantonness to begin this early.
With a slow hand, he drew up her skirts. Instinctively she pressed her thighs together when she felt the air upon her legs. She had worn her best stockings, but no doubt they compared unfavorably to others he had come across. He eased a hand between her thighs and pushed one to the side. Her pulse raced. She closed her eyes at what was to come next. What a sight she would present to an onlooker!
He leaned over her as his hand found the flesh at the apex of her thighs.
“My God,” he breathed upon discovering the fair amount of wetness there and looked at her with a satisfied grin.
With a soft groan, she pleaded with her eyes to make quick the deed. But he stroked her with the back of his forefinger with maddening languor, gently nudging that nub of flesh with his knuckle. She wanted him to stop, resume their travel and escape this inn that she hoped she would never have to see again for she did not think she could look the innkeeper in the eye knowing what she had done on one of his tables.
She could push him away but the beautiful sensations fanning through her body stayed her hand. He circled her clitoris, wet and slippery from the juices of her own desire. Her toes curled inside her slipper. Pushing all thoughts of the innkeeper from her mind, she concentrated on that familiar and welcome ascent. She gasped when he slipped a finger into her quim. He slid the digit in and out, making her pant.
Her mouth felt dry against the linen, but there was no turning back, not without a great deal of anguish. She wanted to spend. At his hands. Upon this table. He slid a second finger into her, and her muscles grasped at him, greedy for more of him to be inside of her. At last he quickened his motions. She gripped the table and writhed beneath him, her movement stymied by his weight. Tremors shot down her legs. She was nearing the climax.
He eased his pace. Her eyes flew open. God, no. He could not be so cruel as to stop now? She arched her hip into his hand.
“Do you wish to spend, Miss Herwood?”
She nodded vociferously.
“It would be my pleasure to oblige.”
He resumed his divine ministrations. She groaned every time his thumb struck her clitoris. It was as if a day and not a year had passed. He still knew how to touch her, knew her most sensitive spots. The tension inside of her mounted. She squeezed her eyes shut against the impending onslaught. When he twisted his fingers and stroked the small anterior area of her cunnie, she came undone, her spasms rocking the wooden table beneath her.
Her gag muffled her cries, though she could not be sure how effectively. The world swayed about her, and she had to close her eyes to calm herself. Only when her breathing had slowed to a normal pace and she had returned from where he had catapulted her did she open her eyes. She was met immediately with a gleam in his. She saw that he still had a bulge in his breeches. Surely it was his turn to be satisfied?
He offered her a hand and pulled her up, then untied the linen and unwound it from her mouth. Next he held out his handkerchief, a lace-edged monogrammed finery. She gazed at it quizzically.
He leaned in toward her ear and explained huskily, “You are quite wet, Miss Herwood.”
She flushed to the roots of her hair and took the handkerchief, hesitating as she held the silk fabric. A fine rag for an indelicate task. Under his watchful eye, she pressed the handkerchief to her inner thigh. After she was done, she smoothed her skirts over her legs. He took the handkerchief from her and returned it to his waistcoat pocket. After assisting her from the table, he went to stand before the mirror above the fireplace to retie his cravat. His restraint contrasted sharply with the impatience he had evidenced earlier when he had cleared the table and lain her across it.
Crouching to the floor, she attempted to clean the mess and replace the items onto the table.
“We’ve desecrated the table. The least we can do is tidy the place,” she explained when he turned to look at her.
He gave up on returning the cravat to its prior glory and knelt to assist her. Oddly she relished sharing the task with him.
When they had cleaned the floor as best as they could, he offered her his arm. “Come, the Chateau Follet awaits.”
Chapter Five
HALSTEN RODE HIS BAY ALONGSIDE the carriage, keeping a watchful eye for highwaymen. Their stops at the following posting inns were not as rousing as the first. He could see Miss Herwood growing weary with the travel, but she made no complaints. That he had managed to withhold himself from ravishing her at the first inn was a wonder to himself, though he had had no premeditation of doing anything shameless. But sensing her arousal as she sat across the table from him, he would have had an easier time staying a wolf from a thick slab of raw beefsteak than contain his lust. His cock had strained painfully against his breeches, especially after witnessing the delightful way in which she spent, but he wished to ease her into their time together and not give her reason to retreat.
It had not proved difficult to ascertain what exactly had prompted her to seek him. His initial payment to her was less than a fourth of what she had asked for, but it was sufficient to stay her landlord and secure an additional six month for the Herwood women. In his visit to the lessor early that morning, Halsten had also requested that he be informed if the Herwoods were to fall behind on their rent payment again. That a man of his station had an interest in the Herwood family was enough to make the landlord think twice about harassing the women again. Halsten was glad that Miss Herwood had had the wherewithal and the temerity to request a far greater sum to ensure the security of her family for a reasonable amount of time. Her uncertain situa
tion concerned him.
At dusk they came upon the Chateau Follet. Built in the early 18th century and laced with a baroque cornice, the structure had three stories with two pointed towers serving as bookends of the perfectly symmetrical façade. The steep hip roofs of zinc contrasted with the ivory stones. One would have thought the Chateau plucked straight from the French countryside. It stood nestled among mighty oak trees and low hills verdant from the recent rains.
He had sent his valet, Jonathan, ahead of them to ensure that all was ready when they arrived. When the carriage pulled up, they were quickly greeted by the servants. Dismounting, he went to assist Miss Herwood from the carriage. As she alighted, she gazed in awe at the chateau.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “The windows are magnificent.”
“The bane of Monsieur Follet,” he noted wryly. “He could not curse the window tax enough till the day he died.”
