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Draven
Draven walked backward, carrying Charlotte, and collapsed onto the settee, the springs groaning in protest. She straddled his lap.
Charlotte worked the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt. He was amazed the fabric did not rip in her haste. A million buttons later, she exposed his chest, while the buttons on the back of her dress foiled him. Growling in frustration, he tugged at the garment, scattering buttons.
Charlotte paused, her hands pressed flat against his abdomen.
“I’ll get you another dress.”
“I don’t care. Dresses can be mended,” she said. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?”
“I can ask the same of you.” He tugged at the bodice, encouraging the fabric to reveal its secrets. There was no time. He had to have her now. The civilized part of him, that desolate and unpopulated territory, cautioned him that he should go slow. Charlotte deserved to be cared for. Savored. Not devoured in his greed.
The greedy part of him—the majority of him to be honest—was on board with consuming her whole.
She opened the fall of his trousers, freeing his member. He bucked up, desperate for her to touch him.
Fortunately, she understood. She wrapped her hand around him. The grip was timid, almost delicate.
“Harder. Touch me with intent,” he commanded. “You won’t hurt me.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
Such a sweet, precious bunny. She couldn’t hurt him. Not with her hand at least.
He placed his hand over hers, encouraging her strokes. It didn’t take long before the urge to spill threatened to cut their tryst short.
“Enough,” he said, moving her hand away.
“Was that incorrect?”
“No, sweetness, it was perfect. You’re perfect, but I’d really like to taste you now.”
He did not wait for her response. A squeaky surprised noise escaped as he flipped her onto her back, followed by a delighted giggle. “A little warning?” she teasingly asked.
Draven pushed up the fabric of her dress, petticoat, and shift. Entirely too many layers. Violet ribbons held her stockings in place, along with her discrete little dagger. “Plans?”
“A lady should always be prepared,” she replied.
Amused, he placed a kiss over the weapon. Despite the stocking acting as a barrier, the silver tingled his lips. He removed the dagger and set it aside.
Her thighs parted, revealing his destination. Dark curls glistened with want. His hands skimmed up her legs, enjoying the firmness of her calves and the soft give of her thighs. Leaning in, he pressed his nose to those curls and inhaled her scent: lavender soap and musk.
Her taste exploded on his tongue. He groaned at the taste of her. She tensed, then relaxed as he licked eagerly, releasing a deep sigh. Her hand rested on the top of his head. Slowly her fingers curled, twisting his hair and the tips digging into his scalp.
He circled her sensitive nub, relishing the way she shivered and moaned for him. He stroked her folds with a finger, pushing in to open her. She clenched around him as he worked in another finger. Her hips bucked as he slowly moved in and out. She fluttered and cried out as her pleasure crested.
Her hand flexed, then relaxed. She sighed, sounding utterly content.
Draven licked the inside of her thigh, right above the femoral artery. He could hear the blood rushing and the pounding of her heart.
“Are you ready for me?” he asked.
“Yes. Please.”
He stood to undress, kicking off his boots and tearing away the damn cravat.
She sat up on her elbow, watching him with hungry eyes.
