The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,82
. . that we are meant to be together, Emma.”
“You infuriate me.”
“You captivate me, so it cancels out.”
She laughed softly, her amusement fading to a husked groan as he slipped her bodice down and freed her breasts to his attentions. Charles lifted one of those gentle swells and lowered his head to worship the peak.
“Ohhh . . .” She panted, those desperately quick intakes of air a symphony of the same hunger he carried for her.
Outside the room, beyond the door panel, the tinkling laughter of guests passing by filled the room, but lent an even greater, forbidden wickedness to what they did here, just a stone’s throw from discovery, and that heightened the sexual tension of this moment. He suckled on the shell of her ear, and she moved against him, knocking the door slightly with that restive thrusting.
Those footfalls outside slowed.
“Shh.” He urged her to silence, and Emma went motionless in his arms, and as she did, Charles laved the tip of her left breast.
Her breath caught.
“Shh,” he said again, challenging her as he made love to her.
The murmurings of the guests drifted by and away until it was just the two of them once more.
Dragging her skirts up around her waist, Charles slid a knee between her legs. She immediately sank onto his thigh, and with a primitive rocking as old as time, she rode him. “That’s it, love,” he encouraged, his voice harsh and low. Charles rotated his leg in a smooth, slow circle that brought another moan spilling from Emma’s lips.
“This is wicked, isn’t it?” Except she sounded enlivened by that revelation.
“Oh, yes, love.” The manner of naughtiness that saw them dancing with scandal, and never more had he wanted to waltz than he did in this moment, with her thrusting upon him, her breath noisy and wantonly wonderful. “Very, very illicit. I can show you more,” he vowed.
That hoarse promise seemed to fuel her even more. She moaned, and pushed herself against him harder, clinging to his jacket as she did, grinding herself onto his thigh. With each thrust, there grew a frantic desperation to her exertions.
Her eyes locked with his, her golden eyebrows stitched, her glistening features a study of concentration as she attended to her own pleasure. And never more did he wish he were, in fact, the cad she and the world accused him of being, because he ached to lay her down on Lady Rutland’s floor and plunge himself into the welcoming heat that surely pooled at her center.
Even the thought was too much. He needed to feel her.
Charles reached between them and slid a finger inside her damp curls. “You feel so good,” he praised, moisture slicking the way as he stroked her. Reluctantly, he pulled away, knowing what she needed to attain that level she sought.
Emma resumed riding his thigh. This time with a greater frenzy than before, the rocking of her hips uneven and jerky. She stiffened, and he anticipated her surrender before she even gave herself fully over to it. She climaxed, moaning and crying out her desire over and over. Until her hips ceased rocking, and she collapsed, limp, against him.
Charles smoothed his palm over her lower back. “Good?”
Emma tilted up her face. “You know it was, you scoundrel.” The smile in her voice softened that rebuke.
He grinned in return.
“You’re so very arrogant, aren’t you?” she said with a roll of her eyes as she made to step out of his arms. But Charles caught her, keeping her anchored against him longer, unwilling to let the moment end.
“Not arrogant,” he murmured, roving his gaze over her face. He brushed a damp strand back behind her ear. “Only pleased that I could bring you that bliss.” And he wanted to show her more than this. He wanted to have a whole future with her.
Except, inevitably, desire faded, and they were left with the reality of what they were. Or what they weren’t. But more importantly, what had come before this.
Emma stepped out of his arms, and this time, he let her go.
Her satin skirts fell in a noisy rustle down her legs, and she made a show of smoothing the front of them.
They both spoke at the same time.
“Em—”
“Charles.”
He motioned for her. “You first.”
“I . . . don’t know what to make of you,” she said, her voice pained. “I enjoy being with you.”
He nodded frantically. “Yes, and I enjoy—”
“But everything I know, every part of me scared of being hurt, says to not trust you.”