only filled her with a freeing sense of power. And also with the deep, drugging pull of desire. Because the pleasure she would give him was not expected or required of her. It was not an obligation but a blessing.
“Let me,” she said, caressing his flanks the same way he had done to her.
He was such a powerful man. Lean and strong and healthy. So vital, so beautiful. Hyacinth was no stranger to the male form, having spent several years of her life as a married woman. But there was no comparison between Southwick and Tom. Her former husband had been despicable to her, whereas Tom was…
Beloved was the word which came to mind first.
She banished it, because that word could not be. Tom had familial duties to uphold. He would have to marry, and Hyacinth wanted no part of that institution. No, pleasure was all they had. And it was enough. She would bask in the time they had remaining, and after that, in her retained freedom.
“Hyacinth,” he said again, caressing her cheek. “I give you pleasure for the sheer joy of making you spend. I never intend for you to do so in turn.”
Of course he did not, did he? A woman could not share a man’s bed without coming to know him in ways no other could. And she knew that Tom was a caretaker. He was an attentive lover, always making certain she reached her peak first, and often more than once. Seeming to understand what she needed, he was never demanding or abrupt. He was gentle, tender, and seductive, wooing her with words, caresses, sweet kisses.
Because he was so giving—because he always put her first—she wanted to do this for him. The act had filled her with revulsion previously. But the new Hyacinth would not be bound by the chains of the past.
And there was something about Tom that felt so safe. He was at once comforting and familiar as home and yet wickedly seductive.
“Tom,” she told him with a firmness that surprised her. “Cease your protests, if you please. I want to do this.”
And that was what made all the difference. Power—hers. She could choose this. She could choose pleasure. She could choose Tom.
If only Tom would allow it. His expression was strained, his face honed into stark angles and planes, as if he were exerting all the restraint he possessed to keep from seizing the gift she offered. She blew on the tip of his shaft, teasing him.
He groaned. “Darling, please…”
But his words trailed off when she clasped his length and ran her tongue along him, traveling from root to tip. His skin was damp and smelled like the oils from their shared bath. Orange and a hint of bergamot. He was smooth and hard, softer than velvet to the touch but firm and thick. He tasted salty and musky and sweet.
A rush of desire hit her. How delicious this was, having him at her mercy—in her hand, in her mouth. He was hers, for the taking.
Growing emboldened, she sucked the tip of him into her mouth. Not much—just his cockhead. She tensed, holding herself still, waiting for the jerk of his hips, for the push of him down her throat. She would accept it and bring him to completion because he was Tom. She had endured it before.
But Tom was not anything like the man she’d had the misfortune to marry. Never was that more apparent than now, in the gentle way he cupped her head as he held himself completely still. He neither asked nor demanded. Instead, he allowed her free rein. He whispered words, encouraging words, beautiful words. He told her she was lovely and wonderful and perfect. He told her she made him wild.
And all she could think was good.
Tentatively, she sucked him deeper into her mouth. There was something deliciously carnal and wicked about his cock pulsing between her lips. She relished it in the same way she delighted in his mouth upon her. It was a gift between the two of them, a sacred connection. She stretched wide for him, taking more, swirling her tongue against him. But he did not empty himself into her mouth.
This, sadly, was the extent of her knowledge of such an act. Southwick had rammed down her throat and spilled in haste, leaving her with a sore jaw and calling her a slut for her forced participation.
She wondered if she was doing something wrong.
Beset by a sudden rush of shyness, she disengaged,