Jane felt a low curling of heat in her belly as they kissed. Her hand clutched his back; her mouth opened to his; her breasts felt tight and heavy.
As though he was reading her mind, his palm came over her breast, kneading the soft flesh, making the low warmth burn hotter.
That part of her he’d touched in the balloon tingled, aching, and she unconsciously shifted closer to him, her fingers tightening their grip on him, splayed out over his back. She got what she thought was an incredible idea, and tugged at his shirt so it wasn’t tucked into his trousers anymore, sliding her hand under the fabric to touch his skin.
The contact made her gasp, and the breath caught in her throat.
“Yes, Jane,” he urged, his lips kissing her jaw, her neck, licking at where her pulse beat. “Touch me. Anywhere you want, sweetheart. Please.” That last word broke hoarsely, and she felt the power of it, felt how desperately he wanted it.
Well, she wanted it, too.
Slowly, her hand went up his back, sliding along his smooth skin, then back down to his waist, the heel of her hand catching on his hip bones. So different from her; he was all muscles and ridges and bone, and she was made of soft roundness. She liked the contrast, liked both of their shapes. They’d fit together like two parts searching for their mates, his hardness pressing into her softness, his power melding into her passion.
“Please,” he said again, his mouth now at the neckline of her gown, his fingers tucked underneath the fabric. Her nipples strained hard against her gown, and she ached for him to touch her, so she knew how strongly he felt. She wanted his hands everywhere, all over her, without regard to propriety or what was done or who did it.
She wanted.
She stretched her fingers long across his lower belly, and she could hear his breathing get faster, a groan strangled in his throat.
She held her breath as her palm made contact with him there, the matching place where she burned, and he grunted his pleasure as her fingers outlined the shape of him through his trousers.
“Does it work the same as it did with me?” she asked, wishing she weren’t so ignorant, but knowing she wouldn’t be here with him if she weren’t so ignorant in the first place.
He laughed against her skin. “Somewhat. I need a different kind of touch, but the theory is the same.” He drew back for a moment, meeting her gaze. “Can you undo your gown? Or let me undo your gown? I need to taste you.”
The sheer, primal desire in his gaze made her shudder, and she gave a quick nod, twisting so his fingers could reach the back of her gown.
Of course he was as adept at undressing her as he was at everything else, and soon her gown was down her shoulders and at her waist, leaving her in her chemise from the waist up.
The blue of his eyes seemed to crackle with intensity as he stared at her. At her breasts. She knew the chemise was made of thin fabric—he could see her nipples, see how they were taut, aching points. She bit her lip as she shifted, wanting the ache to go away, but never wanting it to be assuaged—never wanting him to stop looking at her like that, at anticipating how he would touch her and where.
Anticipation, she thought, and smiled.
“What is it?” he asked. His voice was gruff and ragged. Not at all the smooth, silky tones of Mr. Thomas Sharpe, beloved Society fixture.
This was only Thomas, him of the rough desire and fierce urgency, the one whose gaze crackled hot, but his hands were gentle, never giving her more than what she wanted. What she needed.
“Anticipation,” she answered. Her own voice was soft and breathy.
His gaze narrowed and she felt her whole body tingle at his expression. Like he was a lion about to pounce. But not on his prey; on his lioness, a creature as strong and powerful as he was.
“What are you anticipating, Jane?”
His hand was back on her breast, caressing its fulness. “Are you thinking about my fingers finding your nipple, stroking it?”
She shivered.
“Or perhaps you want my mouth on your breast, sucking it into my mouth, licking your nipple as my fingers find somewhere else to touch?”
“Oh,” she moaned. That place between her legs ached—for him to touch her, for anything that would ease the delicious pain she felt there.
“Do you want me to touch you as I did in the balloon?”
His hand left her breast and traveled down her body, dragging the skirts of her gown up, his fingers now on the bare skin of her leg, now on her thigh, and then—
“Ahh!” she cried out as his fingers touched her there.
“You like that.” It wasn’t a question.
“Mmm,” she moaned.
“You’re this wet for me, Jane. For me.” His voice was roughly proud, and she met his gaze as she nodded assent.
“I can feel how slick you are.” He was touching her there, where it ached the most, and then another finger slid into her, and she gasped at the sensation. “So tight, Jane.”
“Is—is that good?” she asked.
He shrugged. “If it feels good for you, it’s good. That’s the only rule. There are no judgments in bed, Jane. Just two people doing what feels good together.”
Just two people doing what feels good together. The simplicity of it, the elegance of such a short statement, took her breath away. As though he hadn’t just done that already.
“How can I make you feel good?” she asked.
He chuckled as his fingers worked their magic, and she nearly forgot her own question. “I feel good when I make you come, Jane. Like I did in the balloon.”
“Oh,” she said on a sigh, feeling each one of his touches through her whole body.
“Tell me what you like.” His fingers continued rubbing and stroking her, and then he stopped talking because his mouth was at her breast, and the sensation was almost too much—the hot warmth of his mouth around her nipple, the rhythmic pressure of his fingers, even the odd feeling of being literally half-undressed and lying on her bed with him contributed to how her emotions flooded, until—
“Ahhh,” she cried, the release suffusing her whole body with pleasure.
She was panting now, gasping as he kept his hand on her, pressing her mound as she continued to shudder.
He raised his head from her breast and met her gaze, a satisfied expression on his face. “I love making you come, Jane,” he said in a low voice.
She shifted on the bed, her mind settling down again, her thoughts turning to ideas about equality and trading favors and reciprocity.
“How do I make you come, Thomas?”
His breath caught at her question. Because of what she said, of course, but also because of how she said it—as though she were invested in the answer. As though it was important to her.
“This isn’t part of your education,” he began, only to stop speaking when she put her finger on his mouth as she shook her head.
“Oh, but it is,” she replied with a warm smile of satisfaction. A reminder that he’d just brought her to bliss only a few moments ago. “I want to know everything about all of this, and I want to be a fair and equal and enthusiastic partner.” She shrugged. “Pleasure is pleasure, regardless of who experiences it firsthand, is it not?”
He raised a brow as he nipped at her finger. Her eyes widened, and then she took his hand and brought his finger to her mouth, wrapping her lips around it slowly. Then sucked it into her mouth, licking it. Making his cock even harder than before.
God. Damn. He hadn’t taught her that; she’d thought of that all on her own.
What else lurked in her imagination?
“I suppose it would help your education if I were to share how to elicit a strong sexual response from your partner.”
She nodded, still with his finger in her mouth. Still sucking gently, sending shivers down his spine, directly to his throbbing erection.
Should he teach her—?
At the very least he owed it to her to tell her what some women—not all ladies, certainly—did with their mouths and their partners’ cocks.
She released his finger, then her hands went to his shirt, and she began to unbutton him. “I want to see you. I’ve never seen—” And she blushed, even as her fingers continued their bold undressing of him.
“You’ve never seen a naked man? Of course you haven’t,” he replied. “Allow me to remedy that.”
He rolled off the bed, standing at its foot, then drew his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. Not caring, for once, if it wrinkled.
This was far too much fun to fuss about one’s wardrobe.
She leaned up on her elbows, an intent expression on her face. Her gaze traveled hungrily over him, her lips parted, her breath coming faster.
“Do you like what you see?” he said as he turned slowly in a circle.
She gave a vigorous nod. “Yes. The rest, please,” she commanded with a haughty gesture. As though she was a queen and he was her servant.
He wanted to serve her. With his hands, as he had already. With his mouth and his tongue.
With his cock, though he knew that wasn’t within the realm of their agreement. It was too tempting, however, to think about burying himself in her sweet warmth.
“Now, please,” she said impatiently, making that imperious gesture again.
“Of course,” he replied. His fingers went to the placket of his trousers and he began to unbutton them, keeping his eyes locked with hers.
She licked her lips and he felt himself tremble. With desire. With want. With need.
And then he was sliding his trousers down his legs, stepping out of them, leaving him in his smallclothes. His cock jutting out from the fabric.
Her gaze went directly there, and her eyes widened even more.
He resisted the urge to preen.
“That is—?” she began.
He allowed himself to reach down and give himself a quick tug, then removed his smallclothes as well, leaving him completely and entirely naked.
As before, he turned slowly, his hand at the base of his cock, aware she was looking at every naked inch of him. Wondering what her response would be to seeing him unclothed.
When he was standing back in front of her he was gratified to see her fascinated and passionate expression.
“Oh,” she sighed in pleasure. “You are truly spectacular. I had no idea—that is, I knew you had to be handsome under all of that, but this,” she said, extending her arm out to indicate his body, “is more than I had dreamed of.”
“Have you dreamed of me, Jane?” he asked, lazily stroking his cock up and down. Resisting the urge to use a tighter grip or move faster. He wanted to see what she wanted to do, not just bring himself to satisfaction.
She tilted her head. “I haven’t yet, but I suppose that now you mention it, I will be. I’ll need something to keep me warm after—”
After he was married. After their agreement was over.
“But let’s not speak about that,” she added, gauging his expression correctly. She lifted her chin toward him. “Come back and show me what to do. With your—” Again that tilted head. “What do you call it?”
Thomas thought fleetingly about feigning ignorance to tease her, pretending he didn’t know specifically what she was referring to, but more than that, he wanted to hear her say it.
“It’s my penis.” He stroked it again, her gaze on what his hand was doing. “My cock.”
“Cock,” she repeated, savoring the word as she popped its final k from her lips.
He stalked toward her, putting his knees on either side of her body and holding on to one bedpost to kneel on the bed. His cock was just over her pussy, though under the yards of fabric of bunched-up gown and chemise.
“Are you going to take that off?” he demanded. He gestured to himself. “It’s only fair and equitable, after all.”
Her hands went to her waist, and she began to shove the skirts of her gown down, wriggling on the bed and nearly making him lose his balance. He held on tighter to the bedpost as she kicked the gown off, sending it to the floor.
“And that,” he said, indicating her chemise.
“So bossy,” she said in a mocking reproof.
“I could tell you to do some other things, if you like,” Thomas replied.
The thought was incredibly appealing. Especially if she decided she’d like to turn it all on its head and tell him what to do.
She bit her lip as she managed to wriggle out of her chemise, leaving her as naked as he was.
He still knelt above her, one hand at the base of his shaft.
“Well?” she asked, a sly lift of her eyebrow accompanying the clear challenge of her tone.
“Well,” he said, maneuvering so he was again lying on his side facing her, “what do you want?”
“I told you before,” she said in an impatient tone. “I want to do whatever I need to your cock to make you come.”
“I know,” he replied. “I just wanted to hear it again.”
Jane felt exhilarated by—by everything. By the languorous feeling she had after she’d climaxed, by how startled he’d seemed when she demanded she return the favor. By watching him undress, seeing his long, elegant fingers undo buttons as she anticipated what she might see.
Knowing it would be glorious.
Which it was, but it was even more than she’d imagined, as she’d told him.
His chest was firmly muscled, a light sprinkling of hair over the upper part. There were ridges in his abdomen where his stomach muscles were, and a very intriguing V that went down into his legs.
His shoulders were broad and muscled as well, while his legs were dusted with the same hair and were also long. Even without a stitch of clothing on, his stance still managed to be arrogant.
And then there was his penis. His cock. His man part.
It stood boldly out from the thatch of hair he had there, bulbous at the head with rippled veins on it.
It was the embodiment of masculinity, and she wanted to touch it. Was that—?
“Can I touch you?” she asked, trying not to overthink.
“I will die if you don’t,” he replied simply.
She held her breath as she reached down to grasp it.
He shuddered, and she paused, hoping she was doing it right. But he’d tell her if she wasn’t. That was the point of education, after all—to be told how to do things correctly, and receiving instruction if one wasn’t quite getting it.
The thought occurred to her that they could do all this again if she wasn’t quite getting it now. Which would be marvelous.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Tell me what to do.”
He placed his hand over hers, moving both of their hands up and down. His penis was hard, but felt as though it was covered in velvet. It was an interesting contradiction, the intersection of hard and soft.
“Like that,” he said, taking his hand away. “Up and down in rhythm. Hold it tighter—yes, that’s it,” he encouraged as she intensified her grip. “Ungh,” he groaned as she continued her movement.
She hadn’t expected it to be exciting for her, but she felt that part of her that had responded so enthusiastically to his touch begin to tingle again as she thought about what she was doing. Interesting.
“What do you call my—that is,” she said, feeling her cheeks turn pink. Ridiculous to blush at that, given that both of them were currently naked and she was stroking his cock, but there was no predicting anyone’s behavior, was there?
“Your—?” he said, reaching down to touch her there. She couldn’t help but emit a soft moan.
“Stop that,” she said reprovingly. “You’ve already taken care of things, this is your turn now.”
“Oh, but Jane,” he said in a ragged voice, “I like to touch your vagina. Your pussy. Your cunt.”
He said the last word as if it were both an expletive and an homage, and she shivered in response, unconsciously increasing her grip and her rhythm.
“Yes, like that,” he urged. He thrust his hips closer to her, meeting her stroke so her fist jammed down to the base of his penis, her hands tickled by the hair there. “Just a little more,” he said. His chest and stomach muscles were flexed, and his eyes were closed, his expression strained and intent.
And then—“Aagh,” he said in a strangled tone, liquid warmth spurting out of his cock and over her hand.
He placed his hand on top of hers, slowing her rhythm as he panted, the sticky liquid coating her hand, the scent of it enveloping her with an unfamiliar and extremely intimate smell.
“Thank you.” He opened his eyes as he spoke, his mouth curling up into a crooked smile. A smile she’d never seen on his face before. A smile that was entirely genuine, not imbued with any of his usual Thomas Sharpe charm.
She felt the impact of that smile through her whole body, her whole naked body, as she lay on her bed with him. As though they were truly partners, and not just friends who’d entered into a temporary arrangement exchanging mutual favors.
“We should get to that list, hmm?” he asked, rolling onto his back. Despite his words, he just lay there, that same smile on his face.
She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed down at him. “Your wife—whoever she ends up being—is going to be very lucky.”
He arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Because of this?” he said, gesturing to include both of them. He shook his head. “I wish I could agree, and I know that many gentlemen don’t have the same . . . skills I do”—at which he waggled both brows—“but the lady who agrees to marry me will enter into our arrangement knowing it’s not a love match.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t have the luxury of falling in love.”
Jane’s chest tightened at his words, a timely reminder that none of what they were doing could result in anything permanent. She knew that, of course. It was good to be reminded of that fact when one was still reeling from such a satisfying and intense experience.
“Let’s work on finding someone you can live happily with,” she said in a soft voice. “That’s more than many.”
He nodded. “You’re right, Jane.” He placed his hand on her arm, sliding his palm down to find her hand, squeezing it in his. “Thank you for all of this.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling her words choke in her throat. “You are helping me as much as I am helping you.”
“A mutually beneficial relationship,” he said in amusement. “So much more than what I expected when you presented the idea at Miss Ivy’s.”
“And you are more than I expected.” It was true, which made it that much more painful to look ahead to when he was settled and she was figuring out what she wanted to do with her newfound knowledge and her future.
But at least she knew her choice would be hers. A luxury, as he’d said, that he didn’t have.