“Very funny, I’m sure. While you may not be concerned about-”

Tossing his waistcoat at the table, he picked her up, curtailing any further comments she might be tempted to make by moving forward with all speed. “We’ll fix whatever you need fixing afterward,” he generously offered, carrying her to a large leather sofa set in the center of the room, sitting down with her on his lap. “If I proceed too fast or too slow, speak up. I am not averse to instructions,” he murmured, conscious he had a virgin on his hands.

The prospect gave him pause.

He’d never been with a virgin.

Tonight would be a first for each of them.

“I confess you’ve been rather constantly on my mind,” Claire whispered, intoxicated by his touch, his nearness, his compelling size and beauty.

Ormond touched her cheek lightly. “I have been thoroughly obsessed with you since you first burst into my house. You were a ferocious little tiger-bewitching and bedeviling me. Leading me into temptation.”

“And me,” she whispered. “Because of you, I am undone.”

More aroused by her delicate vulnerability than the most adroit courtesan practicing her craft, he found himself inclined to mount her on the spot. Drawing in a breath, he cautioned himself to restraint. “We are both undone-and I for one am unaccustomed to the feeling.”

“You don’t mean to-that is…you aren’t changing your mind?” she said with unseemly panic.

“No, no, indeed not.”

“Oh, good. Should I take this off then?” She plucked at her shift. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I worry our absence might be remarked upon.”

Could he ask for more? “Rush me all you want,” he murmured, reaching for the buttons on her shift, gratified that her timidity no longer deterred her.

She didn’t wear a corset, although her gown was boned to define the narrow waistline that was fashionable once again. He was thankful for one less garment to remove.

“May I unbutton your shirt?”

The hesitancy in her voice struck some primal nerve, reminding him afresh that there was a world outside the brittle façade of the ton. A place where women weren’t all experienced at pleasing a man, where innocence wasn’t unknown. “Please do,” he said, gently, feeling as though he was about to enter uncharted territory.

As she freed the diamond studs on his shirt front, he slipped her shift from her shoulders, taking note of the unadorned cambric fabric much the worse for wear. He would take pleasure in giving her a new wardrobe. She dressed austerely-like a governess-part of her resolve not to be beholden to her aunt, no doubt.

She needn’t worry about being beholden to him.

He was generous with his lovers.

And breasts like hers should be covered with the finest silk.

Slipping his palms under her opulent breasts, he gently weighed them in his hands. “You hide these.” He smiled. “Now that you’re mine, I’m grateful.”

“I’m not yours.” But her voice was hushed, her fingers arrested on his shirt front.

“Really.” He tightened his fingers slightly, leaving an indentation on her soft plump breasts. “I thought we had a bargain.”

She shut her eyes against the fevered ecstasy streaking downward from his hands to the throbbing ache between her legs.

“Tell me,” he whispered, taking her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing gently. “Tell me you’re mine.”

She shuddered as a jolt of desire rippled through her vagina. “Yes, yes.”

“Yes, what?” For a man who had always avoided female entanglements, that he required her submission should have been a warning or disquieting at least.

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, as he gently massaged her nipples, as her body opened in lustful welcome, as long-suppressed desires overwhelmed all else. “I’m yours. I’m yours…”

“Good.” A brusque, blunt avowal.

“Would you…I mean-could you possibly-” her gaze was fevered, impatient, her breathing unsteady.

“Fuck you?”

She looked away, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.

For a virgin, she was ravenously eager. Although how would he know what a virgin was like? “I’m sorry, that was rude,” he whispered, thinking her the picture of unspoiled womanhood, all pink, soft innocence in half undress.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” she said, turning back, embarrassed, yet impatient, unsure of the degree of wantonness allowed.

“Of course you should have,” he murmured. “Ask me anything.” And bending down, he kissed her trembling mouth.

She clutched at him and whimpered, offered herself up with a desperate abandon no man with a heartbeat could have refused. Quickly easing her down on the couch, he whispered, “I’ll be right with you,” and stood to strip off his remaining clothes.

This time, he dropped them on the floor without regard for Miss Russell’s sensibilities.

She didn’t notice, but he didn’t think she would, lying as she was with her eyes closed, shuddering and trembling. Suddenly, her body went rigid, and clenching her fists, she shut her eyes so tightly her eyelids turned white.

An image that gave him serious pause.

It wasn’t as though he had a dearth of women wanting to fuck him.

Did he really want this patently reluctant woman?

“I’m not sure I’m looking for a sacrificial virgin,” he murmured, although even as he spoke, he was chiding himself for being so magnanimous with his personal pleasure at stake.

“Wrong,” she whispered. “Please don’t make me wait.”

There. That certainly was unequivocal permission.

Not giving himself any more time to question his philanthropic impulses, he quickly lowered himself over her body, smoothly positioned himself between her legs and guided his throbbing cock to her sex. Reminding himself to enter her slowly-losing one’s virginity was said to be painful-he carefully eased the crest of his erection into her cleft.

She was succulent and slick, her tissue liquified by lust, but he moved forward delicately, penetrating the merest distance before politely pausing.

To his surprise, she lifted her hips, enticing him deeper.

Grateful for her overture, having never dealt with a woman who had been rigid with fear, he thrust forward marginally and meeting no resistance, drove in deeper yet.

And deeper.

And deeper still.

As he buried his cock up to the hilt in her hot, molten cunt, he suddenly understood that he had misread the implication of her utterance-wrong.

Miss Russell was no sacrificial virgin; she was no virgin at all.

Beneath her schoolmistress persona and virtuous pose was a woman of lush voluptuousness and seeming sexual appetites.

He felt enormous relief, profound gratitude, and a seriously explosive ardor. There was no need to tread lightly, as it were. The lady was no novice; in fact from her impassioned response, from her soft sighs and eager moans, her clutching hands on his shoulders and back, her lush, tight, avaricious cunt, he rather thought he’d chanced upon the more sexually liberated of the Russell sisters.

With professionalism and artistry, he set about exploring the silken heat of her willing cunt, moving from side to side, in and out, more fully appreciating her ready response for having thought it absent. As she enthusiastically matched his rhythm, offering variations of her own with a spirited zeal, clinging to him as though he were her sexual salvation, he experienced a new level of erotic sensation.

Overwrought and overstimulated after being celibate so long, Claire drifted in some mindless glow of rapture and ecstasy, a flushing, tingling, all-pervasive mist of ravishment and delight. She felt each spiking impact as he thrust forward, each tactile caress and oscillation, each slow stroke and flutter of withdrawal, and consumed by a red-hot hysteria, she came so quickly the first time, Ormond had to swiftly improvise.

A man of less virtuosity might have failed her.

Fortunately, years of practice came to the fore and swiftly shifting direction, he drove back in, plumbing her depths. Cramming her full, he held himself hard against her womb as she climaxed in a panting, blissful, suffocated scream.

He marveled at her control. Even in extremis, she’d curbed her orgasmic cry. But then Miss Russell was not an impulsive woman. Or under most circumstances she was not, he thought with a smile.

Always a courteous lover, he waited for her fevered sensibilities to cool before slowly resuming his rhythm.

“I am smitten and enraptured,” she breathed, her eyes heavy with pleasure. “Although, never fear, I know my place.”

“Preferably under me,” Ormond murmured, thinking her tactful in the extreme. Women were always quick to stake claim, as though having sex somehow allowed them to intrude into his life. This little schoolmistress wouldn’t be demanding it seemed. The perfect woman, he fondly reflected.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She smiled sweetly and wrapped her legs around his waist.

She recovered quickly, matching his rhythm once again as though she’d not just climaxed. “We need more time,” he murmured, thinking a week or so would suit him with a woman of such carnal proclivities.

“I’d like that.”

Suddenly they both heard the orchestra for the first time since they’d entered the library as though aware once again of reality. Or perhaps the musicians had been on break and they hadn’t noticed.

Regardless, they became conscious of time.

“Once more before we go?” he said with a smile.

“Please, may I?”

His cock increased enormously at the guileless naivete of her response. He almost decided to disregard the possibility of exposure to have his fill of her tonight. Although, that thought died after the briefest of seconds. He was not so rash.

Also, he wanted more than the furtive interval allowed them here.

And while he didn’t know exactly why he wanted it, he knew he did.

“You feel glorious around my cock,” he whispered, forcing himself deep inside her.

“I adore-him-and you,” she whispered back, gasping as he bottomed out, stretching her taut, pulsing tissue.

“Have your fill,” he breathed, selfishly hoping it didn’t take her too long to come this time, settling into a slow, artful rhythm he’d perfected over the years. It was about feeling, not speed, positioning, not indiscriminating oscillation. It was about watching and listening-about paying attention.

In short order, Claire died away in blissful release once again, uttering his given name in a breathless litany of thanksgiving and joy.

Ormond climaxed a few moments later, although he was less vocal. But he went off the deep end with equal frenzy or in his case with unusual violence to sensibilities he didn’t realize he possessed.

Perhaps he had become too jaded.

Sex of late had not been particularly soul-stirring. Which made his reaction to Miss Russell even more surprising. But rather than overintellectualize his feelings, he decided instead to pursue further sensations with Miss Russell and once his breathing returned to normal, he said, “I’ll make it better next time. We won’t be so rushed.”

“You were excellent.”

He smiled, feeling as though he’d been graded. “Thank you. I enjoyed your company as well.”

She looked up and smiled back. “And thank you too for being-so dependable.”

“Selfish motive impels me.”

“Nevertheless, your selfishness also benefits me.”

He didn’t respond other than lift his chin toward the sound of music. “We should rejoin the festivities.”

She suddenly felt as though he were aloof, detached. It’s over. He’s had his fill and he’s bored, she thought, feeling a vast unhappiness. He hadn’t meant what he’d said when he mentioned not being so rushed next time. It was politesse only, a kind way of taking his leave.

“Just a minute. I’ll wipe you off,” he said in that same neutral tone as he rose from the sofa. Pulling an embroidered runner from a nearby table, he sat beside her and wiped his semen from her stomach. Shoving the stained cloth under the sofa, he said with a small sigh, “I hate to do this. I’d rather stay. But people might notice.”

It was astonishing how a few simple phrases could return joy to her life. “I understand. One must be sensible.”

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door.

Claire instantly went pale. “We are found out,” she whispered.

“I expect it’s Catherine.” If anyone was serious about getting in, they would have put more strength behind their knock. “Let me see.” Reaching for his trousers, he stepped into them and strode toward the door. “May I help you?” he asked, in the event it wasn’t his cousin.

“Mrs. Bellingham is asking for Miss Russell.”

It was Catherine. “We’ll be there directly.” Without waiting for a reply, he returned to the sofa where Claire had already pulled on her shift and was sliding on her slippers.