“Oh God,” she softly wailed, attempting to suppress the ripples of pleasure spreading outward from Fitz’s silken touch, mortified that she was melting inside when any self-respecting lady regardless of-oh Lord, what was he doing? “Don’t, Fitz, for God’s sake, don’t!”
“I won’t if you don’t want me to, darling,” he whispered, having eased her labia open with his thumb and tucked her skirt hem into her waistband with his other hand. “It’s up to you, of course.” And leaning forward slightly, he slowly measured the length of her distended clitoris with the tip of his tongue.
Gasping in shocked surprise, she jammed her palms against his head. But the pressure of her hands quickly relaxed as his tongue skimmed the twitching nerves of her clitoris and his long, slender fingers sunk palm deep inside her and stroked her throbbing vagina.
A moment later, sliding her fingers through his dark, ruffled hair, she gave herself up to a wholly new gluttonous pleasure, moving against his mouth, needing to ease the uneasable ache.
He felt her move, felt her clitoris swell, renewed his attention to her clit with single-minded professionalism, bringing her quivering little nub to full-blown, ready-as-could-be tumescence. She was slippery wet, her stimulated flesh moistening his fingers, the sleek fluid trickling down her thighs, and he hoped like hell Adelaide found her damned book of sermons quickly because Mrs. St. Vincent was getting really worked up and she wasn’t the patient type. Not that he was either, ergo his impetuous journey here after Clarissa’s. It appeared that Mrs. St. Vincent’s pussy, for inexplicable reasons, was the current magnet for his cock.
There was no reasonable explanation for his obsession, but then again, none was required.
Consummation alone was his holy grail.
“Mrs. St. Vincent! I don’t see the cardinal’s books!”
“Just to your… right… Lady Harcourt!” Rosalind called out, her voice faltering with her passions near fever pitch, with Fitz’s talented fingers inciting a frantic, shameful desire, with her senses beginning their impassioned, headstrong march to delirium. “Stop… oh God… please,” she whimpered.
“Come first.” Maybe this was about control; maybe he needed her to be as necessitous as he. Payment as it were, for his irrational pilgrimage to her store. “Come and I’ll stop.” He smiled as she shivered and the throbbing tissue surrounding his fingers pulsed and fluttered, as she softly groaned at the soul-stirring rapture. “There… that’s a good girl. That was a nice little spasm. If you come fast enough, darling,” he huskily murmured, “by the time Adelaide finds her book, you’ll be able to breathe again.”
As if he had but to whisper the prurient, shameless words of encouragement, she suddenly shuddered, gasped, and grabbed the counter as a white-hot flood of rapture rushed through her cunt, jolted her brain, brought her moments later-ravished and flushed-to a white-knuckled standstill. Skittish in her compromised position, she drew in a deep breath, forced herself to a semblance of calm, and smashed Fitz’s head with her fist. “Damn your rashness,” she hissed.
He looked up, his gaze amused. “You always come so fast I didn’t think it was a problem. And admit, you feel much better now.”
“Smug bastard,” she grumbled.
“Just be a dear and get rid of Adelaide.”
“And if I don’t?” She felt as though she should resist him, as if her virtue were at stake.
“Then I’ll get rid of her,” he quietly said.
“Don’t you dare!”
“You have no idea what I dare,” he drawled.
“The dear man has written two new tracts,” Lady Harcourt cheerfully exclaimed, holding two books aloft as she walked toward the counter. “Isn’t he the most exciting religious mind of our time! Such insights, such profundity. It quite enlivens my life.”
“Each to their own,” Fitz drolly muttered.
Shooting him a heated warning glance, Rosalind shook down her skirts and said, “Indeed, Lady Harcourt, Cardinal Newman’s works are very popular.”
“My dear, the heat must be bothering you. You’re quite flushed. Perhaps a cool glass of water would do you well.”
“I believe I’ll take your advice, my lady. The temperature is most vexing.”
“You wouldn’t want to suffer from heatstroke, my dear. My late, dear husband was brought low by just such an occurrence. He was never quite the same after.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Rest assured, I shall drink a glass of water.”
Rosalind quickly wrapped the two small books and handed them over.
“If you’d send a note to the house should more tracts arrive, I’d be most grateful,” Lady Harcourt said.
“Indeed, I shall. Enjoy your reading, Lady Harcourt.”
WHILE ADELAIDE WILL be grateful to hear of Newman’s new work, I’m grateful she finally left,” Fitz said, coming to his feet as the door closed on the noblewoman. “This time I’ll make sure the door is locked.”
Sated and replete, Rosalind was once again capable of clear thinking. “You should go instead.” Cooler postcoital reason prevailed, as did varying degrees of self-reproach for her shameless behavior.
Fitz rather thought it was his turn. As for the lady, she climaxed so easily he understood why Edward St. Vincent had written erotica. And that might be another less rational reason why he wasn’t about to leave. “I’ll be right back,” he declared, moving from behind the counter and making for the door.
Directing her testiness at Fitz rather than admit that she’d not only succumbed to his seduction but also had done so with barely a struggle, Rosalind irritably remarked, “Really, Groveland, I wonder how you ever get any women into bed with your despotic manner.”
He turned his head at the preposterous comment. She had just climaxed thanks to him, had she not? And pursuing women were a constant in his life. “Maybe you could give me lessons,” he drawled. “You seem to have gotten the hang of it.” Locking the door, he flipped over the Open sign to Closed.
“Go to hell,” she said, his recognition of her eager response exasperating and embarrassing. “Get out of my store.”
“Darling, bitch at me later,” he pleasantly replied as he returned to the counter. “In all fairness, it’s my turn.”
“It certainly is no such thing!” Having fallen prey to his deft persuasion only served to harden her resolve. Then again, postorgasmic, purified motives were more easily managed. “For your information,” she haughtily announced, “I am a nonconsenting adult.”
Her ridiculous protest amazed him, but then he’d not led a conventional life. Perhaps people who conformed to society’s rules fought their natural impulses. He inwardly smiled. Until they didn’t of course-to whit, her recent climax.
Moving behind the counter where Rosalind stood defiant and watchful, he picked up the jar of salve from the counter and shoved it in his pocket. “If you’re still nonconsenting ten minutes from now, I’ve lost my touch.” And having just brought her to orgasm, he was pretty sure he hadn’t.
“You could at least ask nicely,” she muttered, struggling with the abiding temptation of wanting him when she shouldn’t.
He glanced at her flushed cheeks and grinned. “Would you like to fuck, Mrs. St. Vincent, or rather, how much would you like to fuck? There’s no question you like it.”
She tried to kick him, but he moved too fast.
His lips twitched into a mocking smile. “Save your energy for the main bout, sweetheart. I’m in the mood for a brawl.” He had his own reasons for not wanting to be here. His own struggle with compulsion. Holding out his hand, he said, thin-skinned and edgy, “Let’s see who wins this match.”
She took a step back.
“My darling little bitch,” he whispered. In a flash, he lunged and swept her up in his arms. “Now mind your manners.” His voice was gruff; it was an order.