One Wicked Night. Noelle MackЧитать онлайн книгу.
silky wet.
I was dizzy with delight when she broke it off, still pressing her body to mine. Under the material of her skirts, I felt something delicious: she was rubbing the soft little mound between her legs upon one of my thighs. “Come to me tonight,” she whispered. “No one will know. The only servants left are in the kitchen.”
“A good mile from your bedchamber,” I whispered back, pressing a kiss to her ear. Not believing my good fortune, I felt compelled to mention the risk we ran. “But should your guardian find out, I will be as good as dead. I will have to fight a duel—or marry you—”
“He has pledged me to another. I did not tell you.”
Too surprised to speak for a moment, I brushed my thumb against her cheek. I could reply only with platitudes. “You should have. A woman’s wedding day is the happiest of her life, is it not?” I could not fathom why she had kept such important information from me during our days together.
She was silent for a little while. “Not always. My guardian chose the man.”
The man. Not my love or even my fiancé. Just the man. It was as if she had been given away to a stranger—and I was to find out later that she had.
“No one can know of this, Edward.” Anne’s troubled eyes searched mine.
“Of what?”
“That I have kissed you. And that I want you—desperately.”
Her words took me aback. I was not able to think. Only much later did it occur to me how odd it was that so lovely a woman had been on the shelf so long, as if her guardian had kept her there for himself for some unknown reason. I had given the matter no thought at all before that moment, naïve as I was.
“Of course not. No one will know.” My reply was meant to be soothing but perhaps it sounded automatic. She put her hands on my arms as if to push me away. I had no idea what to do or say.
Perhaps she wanted me to come to her rescue. But claiming her as my own had been the farthest thing from my mind, despite my love for her. There was the difference in our age, and—and perhaps I knew even then that romantic fantasy is rather better than the cold realities of married life.
An odd silence came between us. What did I not know about Anne? She could not be a virgin, I suddenly thought. Her knowing air and the speed with which she had issued such a wanton invitation to me made that suddenly clear. But I was. I wanted her. And she had said she wanted me.
How often had I stripped off my clothes and tossed them upon a chair, never giving a second thought to my nakedness? I felt different now, undressing by candlelight before a woman who was still clothed, obeying her soft commands, desiring only to please her in every way for this, my first time. Unlike my friends, I had yet to go a-whoring in the brothels of London or slake my lust with a willing servant girl. I was protected from such temptation by my boyhood love for Anne. Once she had decided to seduce me, I wanted to be totally and completely hers.
Not knowing quite what to do, hoping she would explain what it was she wanted before I made a fool of myself, I stood before her as she sat in an armchair, my cock so hard and standing up so stiffly from the soft curls at its base that it could not jut out unless I held it and forced it down. She would not let me clasp myself.
“Stand with your legs apart. I would see all of you, Edward.”
Again I obeyed. Her hand slid between my thighs and touched my balls, stroking with a teasing touch. Expertly she drew down my foreskin and put her sweet lips around the head of my cock, tasting the clear drop of fluid that sprang from the small hole with just the tip of her tongue. I could feel her fingers play upon my balls, which tightened. A strong rush of sensation—too soon, too soon—made me push her hands away and pull my cock from her mouth.
I closed my eyes and drew in long breaths, willing myself to wait. Anne murmured something I could not quite hear. I opened my eyes and looked down at her. She had unlaced her bodice and was fondling her breasts while staring at my cock. Stiff as a soldier but more of a gentleman than I, the damned thing bobbed its head.
“So you know that you must not come too soon—very good. My pleasure takes longer. Ah, you are truly a man at last. I love to look at you.”
The mirror opposite reflected us both. She was a picture of erotic delicacy, pulling her nipples with slender fingers, poised upon the chair in a light summer dress that was coming apart little by little as she undid this and opened that. In contrast to her femininity, I had filled out by that summer and was indeed a man, far more muscular than I had been as a youth of eighteen. If the sight of me naked aroused her so readily, then she might feast her eyes upon me as long as she liked.
“Turn around,” she said. “Ah. Even better. Now bend over. Like that—yes.”
I braced my hands upon my knees and did as she bade me. Again a soft hand reached between my legs to stroke my balls. The curious subservience of the position did not trouble me—I have thought since that if men love to study women’s private parts in every possible way, it is only fitting that we should allow them the same privilege.
Her hand reached further to stroke my member with subtle motions. Anne ran her fingertips along the engorged veins in a way that made me tremble with renewed lust.
She stopped and ran her hands over my arse, soothing me until I straightened, then stroking the backs of my thighs until I turned around. Her touch was highly sensual and obviously skilled—I knew then that my lovely lady found her greatest pleasure in teaching young men the arts of sexual love.
Desiring to be initiated with all my heart, on fire with erotic sensation, it mattered not at all to me if I was not the first who had submitted to her gentle will. Indeed, in my present state the thought of the others aroused me even more. It was as if I could see them in her dreamy eyes, displaying the same impossibly high erection I had.
Her dress had slipped off her shoulders and lay in folds about her waist. Then, knowing I was watching her every move, Anne lifted and pushed aside the flowing material to display her cunny. I had seen other such but none so pretty. There were the servants that Thomas and I spied on, an occasional slut who hoisted her bedraggled skirts to display her wares in London lanes, and only once, a tight, shaved slit belonging to a noblewoman in a carriage who took a peculiar pleasure in exhibiting herself to men, then riding on.
But Anne’s was irresistible, with deep-pink folds inside blond curls, a honeypot dripping with sweetness. I dropped to my knees, eager to taste her. I was clumsy at first but I soon understood what excited her most. She spread her thighs far apart and leaned back upon the accommodating armchair, pushing her hips forward. Then she ran her fingers through my hair, drawing my head down so my mouth was on her cunny and firmly keeping it there.
I began to lick eagerly, exploring the succulent flesh with my tongue, flicking it over the little bit at the top—ah, that was best of all. Anne writhed and held my head more closely to her private parts. Small but highly sensitive under the hood of skin, the bit of flesh felt like a little rod. Sucking it seemed only natural. And so I took it between my lips and sucked it with gentle emphasis, aware of her ever-increasing pleasure from her moans.
Two might tease. Novice that I was, I let go and sat back on my haunches, resting my hands on her thighs to hold them open and look at what I had been tasting. Anne opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but I prevented her and made her slide her arse down instead.
Then I lifted her legs up nearly to her shoulders and told her to hold them there, guessing that her cunny would be nicely squeezed between her thighs. She obeyed me this time, clasping her legs behind her knees and hiding her face behind them. I liked seeing her this way, legs, arse, and cunny, presented for my pleasure. Her labia were swollen, flushed with sexual excitement, and dripping with a warm juice that I lapped up, slowly at first, then faster.
In this position I could also see her arsehole, and touched it tentatively, not sure if women enjoyed the sort of sport in which stableboys indulged, bending each other over bales of hay to fuck and be fucked.
I was growing