I, of course, want to see all of him. The feel of hard muscle beneath his suits suggests a body well honed, and the thought of viewing any part of it makes me pulse with excitement. Unfortunately we were in a moving carriage, and Ian removing all his clothes, then resuming them wouldn’t have been practical. He told me I could view any bit I wished, but I’d have to open that part of his clothing myself. Depraved thing that I am, I reached over and began to unfasten his trousers.
Ian sat back and let me, his eyes closing to slits of gold. He spread his legs but refused to help me. This vexed me, because men’s clothes are wretched things. I don’t know how they manage. I had to unbutton and untie and move several pieces of fabric before I finally found what I sought. Ian was shaking by the time I finished—with laughter, I believe. At last his clothes parted, and I was able to reveal that part of a man’s anatomy that is the cause of so much wickedness. I am pleased to say I felt no embarrassment or timidity as I closed my hand around it and drew it forth.
Ian did not need to be embarrassed either. He is perfectly shaped. His shaft is smooth and dark, very warm in the cool carriage. It ends in a wide tip, like a cap with a tiny slit in its middle. I stroked my finger over this slit, and Ian made a hungry noise.
Realizing he liked this, I moved my thumb over the tip in a circular motion until he groaned again. I played with him thus, enjoying my power. I varied my technique, grasping his shaft and stroking my fingers up and down it, or tickling my way around the flange.
Ian put his hand over his face and wrapped his other arm tightly around me. I rested my cheek on his chest and kept up my play with his fascinating appendage.
After a while, I wanted more. The carriage was moving smoothly, so I slid from the seat to my knees. I studied him a little while at eye level, enjoying looking over every part of him. Then I leaned over and took him into my mouth. Ian jumped like I’d stung him. I feared I’d hurt him, but when I tried to back away, he laced his fingers through my hair and pulled me to him again.
I’d never tasted a man’s shaft before, and I licked it, assessing what it was like. I found the taste faintly salty, but darker, different from his lips.
I speculated whether I could put a love bite on him here, and when I began to try, he moaned out loud. He moved his legs farther apart while I worked, and his feet flexed in his boots. I heard him whisper my name, but I couldn’t reply, my mouth being far too full of him.
I couldn’t quite leave a love bite, though I tried for a long time. When I finally gave up, I pushed my mouth back over his shaft, as though I meant to swallow it entirely. The thought excited me. I wanted to devour him. I didn’t understand the wanting, but I pushed him into my mouth as far as he could go.
I know he liked this, because he wrapped his legs around my middle, and the sounds that came out of his mouth were incoherent. His hips moved, making him rise out of the seat. I felt gleeful that I could torment him this way, just as he’d tormented me. I now knew how to give him such pleasure he couldn’t keep still.
I dipped my hand between his spread legs to find the round firmness of his balls, and entertained myself moving them gently in my palm. I felt him shudder, felt the pulsing inside him, and then suddenly he let out a loud groan and filled my mouth with his seed.
I was surprised and nearly pulled away, but my heart beat swiftly, and I decided I wanted to stay put. Ian tasted like fine cream with a little bite, not at all a bad concoction. I slid my tongue around my mouth as he eased himself out, and I swallowed him, happy to keep some part of him for myself.
lan dragged me up into the seat without bothering to refasten his trousers. He kissed me hard, despite what I’d just done, as though he wanted to taste what lingered on my lips, He looked at me and said nothing at all, but his grip on my face softened. I saw his gaze try to meet mine and fall short every time.
Finally he growled a little and gathered me into his arms. He held me thus, stroking and kissing my hair, until the carriage slowed again in front of Isabella’s house.
Ian refused to come in, which I understood, though he’d of course fastened his trousers again. I expected him to say some good-bye, to let me know when we might meet again and continue our wanton entertainment, but he remained silent. He was breathing hard, though, and I believe he’d not had a chance to compose himself.
Isabella greeted me without the slightest trace of the headache she’d affected before I left. In fact, the deceptive young woman raced upstairs and dressed to attend a salon, even though the rain hadn’t slackened one whit. I declined to attend with her, because lan wasn’t escorting us, and I couldn’t imagine any delight that could match what I’d experienced in Ian’s closed carriage on this wet day.
The hotel room was hot and close, despite the window thrown open to coax in the summer breeze. The suite had been fitted with a fan that spun lazily overhead, propelled by compressed gas. But it worked in fits and starts and did nothing to move the still Italian air.
“There is another one, Your Grace.”
The Duke of Kilmorgan’s whippet-thin valet laid a newspaper across the volume of papers on the duke’s desk.
Hart scanned the page Wilfred had folded open for him, but the relevant story was obvious. A society paper sketch portrayed Ian Mackenzie alongside a lovely young woman with dark hair at a crowded theatre. Behind the young woman, his sister-in-law, Isabella, beamed. Stark capitals, with many exclamation marks, blazoned in French across the page:
A new amore for a duke’s brother? The mysterious English heiress, Mrs. A —, accompanies Lady I and her brother-in-law to a production of La Bonne Femme, the latest and most scandalous musical comedy to open in Paris. Naughty, naughty Mrs. A .
“Who the devil is this woman?” Hart growled. He’d never heard of her, never seen her before. “Lord Ian is quite rich, Your Grace,” Wilfred said in his creaking voice. “Perhaps she seeks to double her investment.” “I find no humor in it, Wilfred.” Hart bent the pen in his hand until the slender instrument snapped. Ink splattered across the newspaper.
“Of course not, Your Grace.”
“Damn it all, what is Isabella playing at?”
“You think she has a hand in it, Your Grace?”
“Both hands. Damnation.”
“Is it such a danger?” When Hart glared up at Wilfred, the man flushed. “I mean, sir, that if her ladyship likes this Mrs. Ackerley, approves of her, perhaps all is well? If your brother, his lordship, enjoys her company . . . well, he is getting to be of an age where he should think about settling down.” Hart watched him steadily until Wilfred trailed off. “You’ve been in my employ ten years, Wilfred. You know Ian, and you know what he’s capable of.” “I do, Your Grace.”