He rocked against her, pushing, pushing, pushing. Her body was so pliant, taking him deeper and deeper as he ground his hips into hers. He wanted to root between her legs forever.

He had been at her so long, the candle was guttering, burned to the nub and suddenly gone, throwing the room in total darkness.

There was something about the dark. Forbidden things happened in the dark. Things that two people did to each other that did not have to be acknowledged in daylight. Things he wanted to do to her right now while she was naked and still coated with his semen.

He nudged her legs together and straddled them so that she enveloped him even more tightly. She stirred, and her sleepy, futile movements stoked him to the blasting point. He covered that one breast to feel her nipple shaping beneath the flat of his hand. He covered her mouth, thrusting his tongue deep within, concurrent with the sharp, thrusting movement of his penis.

She came languidly awake as she accepted his tongue. Her body arched under him as he fingered her nipple the way only he could, and he followed the movement with a hard thrust of his hips.

This was all he needed: his possession of her turgid nipple, the soft, hot accommodation of her supple body, the hot press of his penis deep inside her, her avid mouth voraciously feeding on his lips and tongue.

He didn't want to move. Couldn't move. If he moved… he spasmed, he spurted, and he ruthlessly got himself under control. He wanted this full bore possession to go on for hours, for days, for months, with no beginning and no end.

And all he had to do was wholly embed himself in her and not move.

He had to move. Had to move. His tongue, his hips, his fingers. Just to let her know he was there. Inevitably, indomitably there.

And that nipple. That hard, pliable nipple… it drove him crazy the way he could play with it, rub it, caress it, the way her hips shimmied and ground into him every time he manipulated it, the way her body got hot, stoked, languid with every erotic touch.

Don't move. Let her move. Let her squirm and twist and try to get away from me. This is my nipple. She will never get away from me.

Something else almost got away from him. The more he tried to contain her, the more she writhed and made hot little pleasure sounds in the back of her throat, and the more aroused he became. A man wasn't meant to feel this explosive, as if every part of him would blow apart if he gave in.

He was desperate to give in. His penis was bone-stiff with his lust to possess her. He thrust into her, short, sharp movements, because any more commitment and he would blast. And he wanted to prolong it, he did. He had all best intentions, just short jabbing thrusts, one two three. Feeding on her lips, one two three; feeling the caress of her tongue against his, one two three; a man had to be made of stone, one two three; well, part of him was, one two three-one last drive home and he burst like a dam, carried away by the gushing geyser of his release. One two three.

Light filtering through the curtains. Movement beyond the door, the maids scurrying to begin the morning. Morning. Damn and hell. Morning.

And here he was wrapped around her naked body and hot and hard and primed to go. Had they slept? He thought so. She had only been half awake at the most during the night.

And now she was this enticing bundle in his arms, her naked body his to do with whatever he wanted. And he wanted. He wanted. He would have to get used to his penis at full staff around her. She would have to get used to it.

He pulled her against him, spoon-fashion, and inserted three fingers of one hand between her legs and cupped her breast with the other.

She was still slick with his semen, still hot, still willing. Her bottom undulated against his hips, she parted her thighs to invite his fingers, and her hand grasped his wrist and pressed them deeper into her cleft.

He was coming closer, closer, closer to something, some pleasure point nestling just within her. There-oh!-there... her body stiffened. She pressed down hard against his fingers-oh now... He had her other nipple… Oh no oh no- too much, too much-

A knock at the door and she swallowed her dismay on a tide of wanton need.

"Good morning, my dear," Reginald called. "Come join me for early breakfast."

"Tell him you're exhausted, you're sleeping in this morning," Jeremy whispered.

She couldn't talk. How could she talk with his fingers doing what they were doing to her. "I-I'm still rather tired," she called back, her voice ragged. "I'm going to sleep in this morning."

"As you wish, my dear. We'll talk later."

Blast, blast, blast…

"I'm still here," Jeremy whispered.

"I feel so illicit."

"You're my mistress," he reminded her bluntly. "After last night, nothing"-he drove his quiescent fingers into her cleft- "nothing interferes with this

She felt herself quickening. He stoked her and stroked her, twisting his fingers deep inside her; she bore down on him, seeking that elusive thing that she didn't know what it was, and succumbing to the ribbons of sensation that skeined from the tip of her nipple to the pleasure point between her legs.

There it was, there, nestling just within her, that secret place waiting for a touch, a caress, a certain pressure that would send her spiraling out of control. She felt it coming. She felt her body reaching for it, yearning for it, closing on it- there, just there-there! Her body seized up, tightened, and then catapulted into a convulsion of unspeakable sensation that just didn't end.

She didn't want it to end. How could she bear it if it ended? And if Jeremy left, as he must certainly do before the morning ended.

Don't think about that. Think about how rock-hard he is and that he's in a fever for your body. That's all there is. And if you want to keep him in your bed, that's all there ever can be…

All, all, all, all, all, all-alllllllllllllllll-

A clock struck somewhere in the distance, and she forced herself to move. She didn't want to move. The morning was perfect, with Jeremy lying beside her naked and asleep, and the wonder of him was that when he slept, that rebellious other part of him didn't.

And what an amazing part it was, all muscle and heat and a life of its own. She touched him, sliding her hand down the long, hard shaft and into the thick thatch of hair at the base.

Soon, soon, he must leave her. And then what? She didn't expect this complication about being-pretending to be?-a mistress. She hadn't expected any of the realities, least of all the kind of bone-sapping pleasure of which she was capable.

No wonder coupling like this was forbidden, secret, immoral. It was so powerful, in so many ways, and so hurtful in others. If she even thought she had feelings for Jeremy, for instance, she might be devastated the moment he walked out the door.

It was so much better that she had initiated their intimacy for her own purposes, and that she was in control of her feelings and could and would play the pleasure game as often as he wanted.

Unless she tired of him.

A delicious thought, but truly, how could anyone tire of being the object of desire? It had all worked out perfectly, she mused, tugging lightly at his hair. He had fulfilled her father's mandate to distract and divert her, and she in turn had taken the best revenge on him by becoming his mistress.

And the game wasn't over yet, she thought. Her supposed obsession with Raulton could still be in play. It couldn't hurt to make Jeremy jealous while she enjoyed what he was willing to give. While she could.

A man wouldn't hesitate. And neither would she, now that he had taught her all the tricks worldly women knew.

The reward for capitulating was enough in itself: pleasure beyond words, knowledge beyond all that was knowable, and the sensual power to make any man come to heel.

Something hot enclosed him. Something wet that pulled at the very tip of his engorged member. Something that felt so good, he didn't want to make a move lest he interrupt the steady sucking of his penis head. And those erotic little noises she was making… she loved it. He loved it, and the way her still-innocent hands kept fumbling all over his shaft and his balls…

Damn… that tongue would set off a firecracker, the way she was using it on him. No one had ever licked him and sucked him so thoroughly and with so much enthusiasm, not even the lamented Marguerite.

Forget about that.

… Forgotten.

He felt himself swelling, his penis distending, his body tightening, gathering, pointing… right there, right to the very center of all that heat, all that wet and that rhythmic erotic pull that now compressed just the turgid tip of his penis.

He wanted to jam himself into her, to see if she could encompass his length that way, her way, his way. He followed the pull of her lips and tongue, his body lifting, grinding, thrusting toward the pulsing sucking of him. Just that, just there-never never never… it was too much, not enough.

Even he… he wanted more more more, just that little more deep in her mouth, stroked by her tongue-the whole head, nothing more… nothing ever more. And she took him, right to the ridge, and it was cataclysmic, the fury with which he came, the way she pumped and sucked it right out of him until there was nothing left. He spurted. Nothing. Another gust. Over now. Drained and gone.

No. Not over. Damn and hell, she was not getting it all. Not by hell. He wrested himself from her greedy mouth and levered himself up on one arm. Oh, yes, he was still hard and hot to spume. More than enough to blast inside her. And her breasts already smeared with his cream… He wanted those breasts in his hands now… and her flat on her back.

She looked so smug he wanted to mount her right there and ride her until the sun went down.

No. He wouldn't last.

Really?

"Lie down." That was about the best he could do at the moment, and he didn't like that cat-lapping smile she gave him; but she willingly lay down, and he rolled onto her and just plunged himself between her legs.

Control. Had to keep control.

He rolled onto his back so that she straddled him, and the expression on her face was wondrous. He was even deeper now, pressing against her pleasure point, and her breasts were there before him, her nipples tight and inviting. She leaned forward to offer them, and he took each one between his fingers as he thrust into her.

Startled, she ground downward to receive him, her hands braced against his shoulders. Was there ever such pleasure? Between his fingers voluptuously compressing both nipples and the short, heated thrusts of his penis, she thought she would dissolve altogether.

She looked like a goddess, with her wild tumbling hair, her pumping hips, her round, taut-tipped breasts, and her responsive nipples that were the only way a mere mortal could contain her.

And this-he drove into her with all his violent need- this… her nakedness, his; this... her nipples, his; this… her sex, his; this... his cream, his, discharging explosively between her legs…

This…

He had to cool off. It took every ounce of strength to leave her, and even then, he wasn't sure he should have. He didn't like the look in her eye, but she could ignore Reginald no longer; it was already well after noon.

He was still primed as a pistol when he slipped down the servants' stairway, and getting in deeper and deeper. He could have pinned her and popped her until she cried for mercy the way he was feeling, and it shocked him.

Damn, damn and damn. Taking a vestal vixen like that and making her his mistress. Was he sane? And because she wanted it. For how long? And when would the recriminations start? Could he believe anything she said? Or was his penis totally in control and he didn't care?

God, he needed a drink. He needed to sit by himself and stew in his own hot blood with a tot of whiskey to tame the rampant beast.

There was always Heeton's, that bastion of male dominance, the most select club in the whole of London, where men of influence and wealth conducted the business of the nation in the hushed sanctity of shadowy corners.

That was the place for a man to ruminate on his sins and excesses. And regain what little sanity he had left.

But it was not to be. He was accosted immediately by the aging quartet known as The Four Crack Hands, who presided over the Betting Book and the Calendar, and who dispensed any information about social venues as though they were meting out water torture.