moaned, flailing against him while pushing her hips up to meet every stroke of his fingers against her flesh.
“Jesus, Maggie.” Welles’s voice was rough against her throat. He pulled her back against his chest with a groan, lifting her thighs up until she was in his lap. His fingers continued caressing her until Maggie panted, begging him for relief.
“Please,” she sobbed. Margaret’s entire body throbbed. The fire Welles had stoked within her burned beneath her flesh. His fingers left their ministrations and she heard herself cry out in disappointment. Perhaps Aunt Agnes had been correct, for the combination of Welles and the music had made Margaret a wild, wanton thing. She heard herself beg. “Please.”
“Shush.” Welles took her in his arms and carried her to the chaise. Gently, he laid her down, his hands running along her hips and legs. He lifted one foot and pressed a kiss to the inside of her calf before he removed her half-boot.
Margaret watched the graceful movement of his hands as the other boot fell to the floor. He paused, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of her foot. He pressed another kiss to her ankle. Then up her calves, lifting the hem of her chemise in slow increments. Each time a piece of her was exposed by his fingers, his lips followed. When he nibbled at the hollow of her knee, Margaret’s head fell back against the cushions, her legs splaying wide of their own accord.
Inch by inch he tugged the hem of the chemise further. She gasped at the nip of her skin above her navel. Whimpered his name as his tongue traced the outline of her ribs. Every bit of Margaret was worshipped. Adored. When the cooler air of the room drifted across her breasts, she raised her arms to allow him to pull her chemise free without a qualm.
“Welles.” She breathed his name like a prayer as his teeth grazed one nipple. His fingers once more caressed the spot between her thighs, stoking the fire that burned within her. He suckled one breast while his fingers explored and teased until Margaret’s hips writhed against his hand.
He cupped the base of her skull with one large hand, leaving her breast as his lips brushed over her cheeks, before claiming her mouth. The kiss was slow and deep, asking for her surrender which Margaret would gladly provide. When he nipped at her bottom lip, she opened her mouth without hesitation to allow his tongue to search out hers. Margaret reached up, threading her fingers through the thick waves of his hair, before moving her thumb to graze the lobe of his ear. Her fingers floated over the rough brush of hair along his jaw before gliding down his neck to press her palm against his heart.
He finally pulled away, kneeling back on his heels between her legs. Without breaking eye contact, Welles continued to touch her and tease her swollen flesh. Gently. Insistently. Drawing out her arousal to a careful peak before retreating.
“I wish to do everything to you.” The heat in his gaze was unmistakable.
“Yes,” she sighed as his fingers thrust gently inside Margaret before he bent to take her in his mouth.
She cried out at the feel of his tongue flicking against her sensitive flesh.
He nudged her legs apart, cupping one buttock, holding her still. The sight of Welles, still clothed, his dark head between her thighs was so erotic, every nerve in her body sparked adding to the sensations building at her core. His fingers curled inside her as he sucked the small bit of flesh between his lips.
Margaret’s head fell back, breath stopping, before falling through the night into a dazzling array of colors and music, like the twinkling of a thousand stars. Intense pleasure rolled over her in great waves, lapping at her skin until her toes curled. When he finally released her, Margaret lay boneless beneath him.
Harriette Wilson’s description of this act did not do it justice.
A puff of air blew through the soft hair covering her mound, tickling her. Welles was kissing his way up her naked body again, whispering against her skin, stopping every so often to nip or press a kiss to a particular spot, claiming each piece of Margaret for himself. He sat back with a hiss and looked down at her. Even in the candlelight, she could see the hard, raised ridge against his thigh.
“You should leave.” His baritone was raspy. Pained.