sexual pleasure that didn't come with a lifelong guarantee. Charlotte already thought herself in love with him, whether she admitted it or not. And she would most certainly cry.
Twice should be enough. Once to deflower her and take the edge off his suddenly overpowering need. A second time to go slowly and explore alternatives.
He could make her come, quite easily, but that might be a mistake. She was probably better off not knowing what she was missing, since her future wasn't likely to offer many opportunities. Most men wouldn't be able to see past the glasses and the scowl, they wouldn't appreciate her creamy, gold-flecked skin and rich mouth. If she ever married it would doubtless be to some widower or elderly bachelor who knew nothing about pleasing a woman and cared less, so she'd be happier without too many fond memories. Besides, it would take a lot of work bringing a newly deflowered virgin to completion. He'd be better off moving on to the next partner, sending this one back to the city.
The others wouldn't like it. They'd want to share. Innocence was a highly prized commodity—there was nothing the Mad Monks liked better than to open the eyes of some starry-eyed virgin. They would expect him to pass her along, to be sampled in turn by lechers and degenerates and sodomites...
No, he wasn't going to let that happen. She would be his, and his alone, and once he tired of her he'd make certain she was out of reach of his more twisted compatriots.
He thought all this as he kissed her, as his erection pulsed at the front of his breeches, as her hands, trapped between their bodies, slowly began to move, sliding up his chest to finally clutch his shoulders. He thought all this, and then he stopped thinking at all, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, the sounds of her breath catching in her throat.
And he wanted, needed to hear the sound she made when she climaxed.
He moved her, slowly, carefully, against the door to his hidden room. He turned, leaning against it so that it opened, and he pulled her inside with him as the heavy door swung to a ciose with a satisfying thud.
Charlotte's senses were flooding her, a delicious cascade of taste and touch, of sounds and scent in the shadowy darkness. She knew she shouldn't let him, but for just this brief moment she couldn't bring herself to resist. This was Rohan, the man in her shameless dreams, the unconscionable rake who'd haunted her waking hours as well. She'd heard the salacious stories—she knew just how depraved he was. She'd read the carefully shielded reports in the newspapers about the Villainous Viscount. His father had been just as bad—it was no wonder he was totally without conscience of decency.
He was also a master at kissing. Even with her total lack of experience she could tell that much.
Adrian, Viscount Rohan, was kissing her, tall, gawky Charlotte Spenser, when there were easily a dozen beautiful women who'd doubtless warm his bed quite happily. But he had followed her, somehow divining who she was. Knowing she was plain, spinsterish Charlotte, and he'd come after her, and now he was kissing her with such single-minded attention that he must like it, at least a little bit.
As for as she knew. Viscount Rohan never did anything he didn't find enjoyable.
His arms were around her, holding her against him, and her knees felt weak. She wanted to sink against him, just let go and have him gather her body against his. What harm could it do?
Very real harm, she thought dazedly as he kissed the side of her mouth, slow, lingering kisses. In another moment she'd shove him away, in another moment she'd run away, she'd find Lina, she'd.. .oh, God, if he'd only stop she could be strong. But as long as he held her like this she couldn't resist.
She'd had so little, and her future was so bleat. Couldn't she have this much?
She felt him shift, turning her around, felt them both move away from the moonlit sky and the cool night air. She felt dizzy, and she tentatively lifted her hands to hold on to him, afraid she might fall, as darkness closed about them and she could hear the sound of a heavy door closing, and then an odd, clicking sound penetrating the haze of longing that suffused her. Almost like the sound of a lock being
Alarm spread through her,