Her face was gently rounded through the cheeks and tapered to a little pointed chin. A country girl’s face. Her skin appeared velvet smooth, dewy, like rose petals after an early morning rain. Was it possible for skin to be that soft?
He extended his hand with the intent to touch her cheek to find out, but froze as she moaned, a sound full of such tension. Such angst. He could feel it within his own bones.
He felt a disquieting sense of connection. But was it any wonder that he should feel connected to her? This girl had spoon-fed him and lain beside him, sharing her warmth. Good Lord, she had bathed him. Had lingered over the act, her soft, small hands grazing him as she applied the wet cloth. The cooling effect had been pure bliss. All that time he had felt her desire as though it had been a force, vibrating on the air, carrying to him.
She had to be a harlot. How else would he find himself alone with her here in this depressing little hovel if he hadn’t picked her up someplace equally squalid? He must have been feeling adventurous indeed.
However, he knew two kinds of harlot. They were either hardened and cold or overly bold and lascivious. But this girl’s air reminded him of a frustrated wife. Sexually repressed yet still dreaming of someone who would come and release her. Which all sounded like a lot of fanciful drivel. He must be foxed. And he was too much in need of a really vigorous fuck.
Jeanne–yes, correct, she’d told him her name— shifted again. The coverlet fell off her shoulder. He couldn’t resist reaching out and stroking her arm with his fingertips. Puckers of gooseflesh greeted his touch. She moaned again, a low, lingering, sensual sound that teased his sleepy senses and sent lust flooding into his cock.
He was so tired, so weak, that his arousal seemed somehow distant. His spirit floated, detached from his body and yet he was aware of every sensation, every pulse of his loins. The dichotomy of his experience left him bemused. He moved his hand up and brushed against heated softness. He cupped his hand and gently pressed. It was a magnificent breast, full, lush yet still youthfully firm for all its bountiful development.
Thinking was definitely overrated. He somehow found himself tucked abed with an alluring young woman. What else could possibly matter? Reality would likely intrude soon enough. He was probably sleeping on that narrow, too short divan in his office.
And if he wasn’t sleeping, well, daybreak would be as good a time as any for questions and answers. It was strange how easily he accepted that logic, but the cobwebs still hampered his mind and he was so damned weak.
Yes, this must be a dream. Some peculiar fancy he’d not even been aware of. A desire to bed a cheap little alehouse tart in her sordid quarters. The wholly pedestrian whimsy of a gentleman who found himself closer to forty than thirty and had been jaded by luxury. How strange when he’d thought himself immune to such nonsense.
Her nipple became firm, poking against the thin muslin like a little pebble. He longed to feel it in his mouth and he pulled himself up, his head spinning. It added to the piquancy of the moment. Then he leaned down and put his lips around the straining peak. He laved the sheer cloth until he fancied he could taste her bare nipple, like roses and honey.
* * * *
Sensation crept into Jeanne’s slumber. Wet warmth circled her nipple. Fire shot from that hard little point to all parts of her, especially into her lower belly. A caress on her thigh urged Jeanne to shift onto her back and part her legs. The touch glided along the inside of her thigh.
A skilled, teasing touch.
David.
She didn’t want to awaken. Not fully. If she did, then she’d have to take responsibility. She’d have to think and right now she wanted only to feel.
As she lay on her side, facing him, he stroked her mons in a feathery motion, traced the line where her mons met her thighs. A stubble-roughened cheek scarped hers. Wetness trickled from her, her folds swelled. She opened her legs, arched her hips, and pressed against his hand.
He didn’t alter the speed of his motions but continued lightly stroking, exploring over her outer lips.
The bed ropes creaked. A log in the hearth popped. Carriage wheels rattled by on the street outside. Long moments passed and yet he continued. Teasing her.
Wetness flowed from her core and slid over her inner lips. Of their own accord, her hips began to dance, up and down. A long moan escaped her. A sound full of longing. Of impatience. It startled her.
A whimper escaped past her lips.
“Shh…” His deep voice reverberated into her bones. He stroked his finger over her slit, lightly, three times.
“Please, please.” A shudder of self-disgust consumed her. Never, ever beg a man for anything. It only gives him power over you. The selfish jackanapes have enough power as it is.