Page 68 of Notorious

She wanted to ask—with all her person—if this was what he did with his mistresses. And did he have any children already? But luckily she could not force out the words.

Instead she stared up at him, his gaze mesmerizing her.

He smiled when she didn’t answer. “We can utilize a sheath, if that is what you would prefer.” Her face heated at his intent look—and she knew he was recalling the last time they’d discussed the subject, and how that had ended. When she said nothing, he continued. “It is no guarantee that I will not put a child inside you, of course, but it will reduce the chances.”

He continued his distracting stroking, his high, sharp cheekbones tinted with pink; Drusilla realized he was excited. By her. Never in her life had a man looked at her like this. She knew, deep in her bones, it was an expression she would do almost anything to see again, and again.

“I love children.” She swallowed, finding thought difficult with his proximity, her near nudity, with . . . everything. “It is true I never expected to have them.”

“Oh? Why is that? I think Mary Wollstonecraft had children, did she not?”

Drusilla’s lips parted. “Yes, she did. But how did you—”

“I am not so savage or ignorant as you might think, Mrs. Marlington. I might have glanced at the good woman’s writings once or twice, if for no other reason than to have artillery when next we met.”

Drusilla could only gape. He had thought about when they would see each other and imagined what he might say? But that was what she had always done with him. Why would he do such a thing?

He caught a spiral of hair and wrapped it slowly around his finger, his eyes tracking the motion.

“You never answered my question.” He kept his gaze on his hand, which allowed her to force out the words that boiled and bubbled inside her.

“I very much want children.” Her voice shook and she sounded hoarse, rough . . . desperate.

The muscles seemed to shift subtly beneath the skin of his face, and his expression became almost . . . austere. He released the curl and pulled her close, lowering his mouth over hers.

He stroked her tightly pressed lips with the tip of his tongue. “Open for me, ya helo. I want to taste you, Drusilla.”

She parted her lips, as she had earlier, in the garden, and he made a low humming sound, all the while stroking, kissing, nibbling.

The feel of his tongue on her teeth, her gums—it should have been revolting. It was not.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against the hot length of his body. “I’m going to undress you now.” It did not sound like a question, but he paused, and she knew it was.

She nodded, her face hot and no doubt as red as a boiled lobster. His questions, as kindly meant as they were, required her to speak, or at least respond. And the things he wanted her to say . . . oh, they were improper and embarrassing and, ultimately, frightening. Frightening because her body was pulling her toward him—toward the edge—without any approval from her mind.

He began to lift both the robe and nightgown from her shoulders, his eyes on hers as he released the garments and they fell to her feet like a silent waterfall. And then she stood before him, naked.

His gaze dropped, and he sucked in a harsh breath, his eyelids heavy. “You are a goddess.”

She reeled from his words, one hand going to her mound, the other arm across her breasts.

His expression was fierce and filled with want; he reached out and traced the underside of one breast, and she could not contain her groan.

He took her face in both hands, his expression gentling. “Go, lie down on the bed, and I will extinguish the lights.” She hesitated, and he kissed her again, his lips and tongue sliding over hers in a way that was becoming, if not familiar, at least no longer shocking.

She opened without being asked this time, even kissing him in return, the tip of her tongue darting into his mouth just as he pulled away.

He released her and went to snuff the candles.

“Do you always extinguish the candles when you do . . . this?” Drusilla asked.

He paused. “No. But I do not wish to mortify you on—”

“No, I want—”

They both waited to hear what she wanted. But she had no words, and her tongue seemed to have gone to sleep.

“I shall leave them.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded.