Page 96 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

Desmond stood still, his eyes glittering and his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths as he watched her drag the loose shift up her body and over her head. His words were a ragged whisper: “Thisbe, we shouldn’t.”

She shook her head, reaching out to him. “No. Don’t say it. I want this. Desmond, I want you.”

He pulled her to him, and all words were gone between them, all speech and thought and hesitation vanished in the flame of their desire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THISBE SLID HER hands across Desmond’s back, learning the feel of his bare skin, warm and smooth beneath her fingers. She followed the contours of his body, curving over the pad of muscle, trailing up the bony outcropping of his spine.

This was what she wanted, what she had ached for and dreamed of. To touch him, to feel the shudder of his response, the flare of heat within him that matched her own. Sensations bombarded her, almost too much to take in, stoking the fire that burned deep in her abdomen. It dazed and dazzled her, but one thing she was certain of: this was, in every way, right.

Kissing and caressing, they tumbled onto his bed. Desmond rolled onto his side, and Thisbe missed having his flesh pressed to hers, but now his hand was free to explore her body as they continued to kiss, and that, she found, was another delight altogether. He started at the top, gliding down over her throat to dip into the tender hollow at the base, then traced her collarbone and slid down to the soft swell of her breasts.

He teased his fingertips around the edge of one of her breasts, and trailed, light as a feather, over the orb. His mouth was avid on hers as his hand encompassed her breast. All too soon, he moved on, but the spread of his fingers across her stomach was almost equally arousing. Her body tightened in anticipation as he arrowed down to his obvious goal. At last his fingers slipped between her legs, and, amazingly, that was only the beginning of deeper, fiercer delights.

As his slender, agile fingers brought these new, intense sensations, he broke off his kiss and moved his mouth to her breasts. The pleasure was overwhelming. Thisbe let out a moan, her fingers digging into the sheet beneath. It was too much; surely, she could not stand this. But she found she could. And could want even more.

Desmond covered her, taking his weight on his arms, and Thisbe widened her legs, welcoming him. She was a learned woman; she knew what happened next. But nothing could have prepared her for the actuality—the new and strange feel of his flesh pushing into her, and the urgent, compelling need to take him into the very depths of her being. There was a flash of pain, overridden by the all-compelling force of her hunger, and finally the indescribable satisfaction as he filled her.

He began to move within her, his motion slow and rhythmic, and Thisbe moaned at the pleasure that built in her with every stroke. She tightened in anticipation. Finally, a low cry burst out of him as he shuddered, and an unexpected, shattering pleasure swept through Thisbe. She clung to Desmond as he collapsed against her, and they lay together, intertwined and replete. This, she knew, was all the world to her.

DESMOND CRADLED THISBE in his arms. He felt as if everything inside him, including his brain, had been wiped clean. Stunned, satisfied and drained, he floated in a haze of pleasure, and for a few long minutes, he let himself luxuriate in it. If he could only have this...

But this, of course, was the one thing he could never have. Desmond was too practical a man, too aware of the realities of the world, to hold on to a fantasy for long. He let out a sigh, pushing his hand back through his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“You regret this?” Thisbe asked, rising up on her elbow to stare down at him. Her hair fell all around her, silky black and alluringly mussed, and her lips were soft and dark from their kisses. The covers slid down her arm, revealing her bare shoulders and breasts, and she looked so desirable that his just-slaked thirst for her surged back in full.

Her tone was wounded, and Desmond quickly assured her, “No. Of course I don’t regret this.” He reached up to stroke his hand down her arm. “I could never regret this. It was... I’m no good with words, but it was the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I think your words are good enough.” She smiled and eased back down, her hand resting on his chest. “I never imagined what it would be like,” she went on. “But I suppose you knew already. You have done it before.”

“Not exactly.”

“Really?” She raised up again to look into his face.

Desmond felt a blush rising in his cheeks. “Well, I mean... I had my studies and work, and I couldn’t really afford to spend my money on Haymarket ware when there were books to be bought and tutors to pay. And, anyway, that seems rather sad, somehow. There have been girls I liked and, we, um, well, we did a bit of... But I couldn’t risk getting any of them with child, not when I didn’t feel for them what one should. I’m not all that old, you know,” he declared, a little defensively.

Thisbe smiled and bent to brush her lips against his. “I’m glad.”

“Also, I am somewhat shy,” he admitted.

“I noticed.” She kissed him again, more lingeringly, and his blood began to heat in his veins. He slid his fingers into her hair as their kiss deepened. Everything in him ached for her.

With a groan, Desmond wrenched away and stood up, grabbing his trousers and donning them, as if they could miraculously shield him from his desire. “No. We can’t.”

“Why not?” That was Thisbe, of course—direct and without hesitation.

“There are any number of reasons.” Why must he argue against the very thing he most desired? But he had to control this; he had to be cautious. Because Thisbe was fearless. She would rush in no matter what the odds, no matter what the obstacles. “For one thing, if we keep on, you could get pregnant.”

“I see.” Thisbe pulled up her knees and crossed her arms on them, clearly settling in for a discussion, just as if he weren’t half-naked and she completely so, under the blanket. “You don’t feel for me what one should to marry.”

“No!” he said in alarm. “It’s not that. Do you think I don’t want to marry you? That I wouldn’t be ecstatic to have a reason for you to marry me?”

“It certainly appears that way.”

“You are the one who would be hurt, your reputation damaged. You know there would be a scandal even if we married—a babe arriving early. I can’t do that to you.”

“And we know how much I worry about scandal.”